


Aingeal an Bháis

by wxyzzyxw



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alcohol, Death, Drugs, Horror Elements, M/M, Multi, Murder Mystery, Religion Mention, Violence, supernatural ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wxyzzyxw/pseuds/wxyzzyxw
Summary: A strange pair of bodies turns up in Limerick, Ireland, with no leads and no explanation. Allen Walker works at a sleepy bar by night and unofficially consults on cases by morning. After his apartment catches fire, his roommate's body is never found--for a reason he never expected.





	1. You're Nothing but Smoke and Mirrors

He stared down into the cup's mouth once again, finding the wispy coffee somehow softer on the eyes instead of his friend's intense gaze. It had been a couple of months since they'd last seen each other. He regretted the distance that grew between them.

"The job is yours, if you'll take it. You should be paid for all the times I consult you on cases, 'ya know?"

He knew that. The job paid a living wage, one he needed if he wanted to continue living in his quaint apartment; working at a pub didn't exactly pay rent. He also knew that he was not half bad at the job, but perhaps that was the problem.

There was a certain darkness that followed around cops in this town-this country-especially the inspectors who worked with homicide cases. Murder was a Catholic mortal sin, and people who chose to shroud themselves in it don't make for good party guests. "Stab City" was a nickname Limerick couldn't chase down with just one pint of beer.

Allen looked at the angry face in the bottom of his cup, the coffee grounds now giving him a demonic scowl.

"I'll have to think on it," he replied absently, almost as if he was more intrigued by the devilish glare than the conservation.

"You always say that! Come on, I'll buy you another whiskey coffee!"

Lavi glanced around the empty bar suspiciously. "I can't share the details, but we have a nasty case unraveling. We could use your unique intuition!"

"Intuition," Allen muttered. "What a word for it."

"Please? Oh, please, oh please, oh please-"

Allen threw his hands up in mock defeat, knowing that if he didn't stop Lavi now, the begging would continue all night (and for a couple of days after if need be). "Alright! I give in! Tell me more about the case. And, I'll take you up on that coffee. While we're at it, does this place serve food this late?"

"I was worried you'd say that," Lavi whined as he pulled out his wallet and a folder labeled Classified. Allen's mind began to wander again, past the moonlit bar, past the dark river outside. Back to the day his so called "intuition" originated; the day his apartment burnt to the ground.

* * *

  _It all started in a shoddy apartment complex: a step above a cardboard box, but subpar to the cheapest room at any seedy motel. The building was on the outskirts of a tiny little town that was just barely a stain on the map. Ireland was already considered a stain on any map, if you asked the landlady: she was a Scot, you see. (Allen and his roommate pretended to have great aunties from Scotland to even get the rooms in the first place)._

_They lived together on the top floor of a building that was actively defending its heritage with overgrown ivy, chipping brick, and faulty radiator heaters. Whenever they brought up the heaters to the landlady, she'd tell them to go dig up some peat, "what the good ol' Scots' used to keep warm!", and then ask for the rent a week early. Allen told her to hold the dirt and that rent would come as soon as the radiators were fixed (he still didn't understand how people in this century used bog scum to keep warm when electricity was well underway)._

_She didn't enjoy this._

_Excluding the peat, there was one heater within the three-room apartment. The rust peeled off of the monster like chapped lips, and it chose when it wanted to work and when it wanted to leak. But for the somewhat affordable price, his roommate and he merely cranked it up during the cold Ireland winter and cocooned within jackets and blankets to make up for what the heater could not._

_They lived well together; Nea, his roommate, had almost all the same likes and dislikes. He marked everything in the fridge with his own name, as did Allen. Most months they paid rent on time. They even shared woes from work and the occasional drink. It was a friendship made out of necessity, but they both enjoyed each others' company._

_Everything went well for days, weeks, even months._

_It was December 25th when he woke with lungs full of black smoke and arid heat._

_It was December 25th when the building turned into a burning carcass._

_When it collapsed._

_When it trapped everyone inside with the eager flames, hungry brick lips, and smoky hands to squeeze the life out of lungs._

_It was December 25th when the triage team of emergency responders marked nearly every tenant with a black tag._

_To be fair, the building was so far from up to code that everyone was doomed the moment they paid rent. He still remembered the unique smell of so many household objects burning. He couldn't forget the smell of human flesh burning, either. He remembered the first voice he heard in the wake of a disaster._

_"Anyone alive in here?"_

_The ceiling had collapsed in on Allen near the start of the fire, he remembered, and he still wasn't sure how he was lucid enough to respond with a pitiful cough._

_"Someone alive in 'ere? Shit, Pam, you owe me five bucks!"_

_Someone else answered, obviously annoyed. "Sure, whatever. Let's get this debris off of him. Check his respiratory rate."_

_"Nea?" He whispered hoarsely._

_"Definitely a possible spinal injury, but the chief isn't gonna care if we break procedure in this hell. Let's just pull him 'outta 'ere."_

_"Hey, can 'ya stand? Anything feel broke?"_

_Allen nodded, although unsure, and the woman helped him to his feet._

_"My roommate, he's still in there!" Allen cried out as loudly as his parched throat would allow._

_"We're doing our best to evacuate the survivors. Please try to remain calm." "He's still in there," Allen repeated while choking on the black air, tears attempting to put out the fire._

_"I'll send someone looking after we get you out. Which room is he in?"_

_That was the last thing he remembered from the building. His body shut down, crashing and collapsing like the foundation of the building they shared together until it fell into pure ebony._

* * *

  _He woke up in a hospital bed, the dull beeping of the machines reminding him that he was alive. Sitting across from him was his only friend, besides Nea, in this town. Yet, he couldn't imagine how Lavi had could have possibly found out-_

_"We got a call at the station about a fire down a ways, and I recognized the name of the street. When I got there to check it out for myself, nothing was left of the place except ashes. Figured I'd wait here until you woke up," Lavi said, answering Allen's unspoken question._

_His throat felt burnt and blistered, and upon closer inspection he realized that his entire left arm was bandaged and covered. He lifted up the bandages a little and recoiled at the sight, almost vomiting in disgust. This body couldn't belong to him, this charred flesh and unsightly appearance and-_

_"You're pretty busted up," Lavi said with a nervous laugh, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence. "But alive, unlike most of the others in the building."_

_"Nea," Allen finally forced out through chapped lips. "Where is he? Did he make it out? The last thing I can remember is falling asleep on the couch together, watching T.V. Is he here?"_

_"Your roommate? All the patients from that fire were taken here, so he's probably around here somewhere. Want me to go and find his room number?" Allen nodded, and then went into a coughing spell. "It's Campbell. That's his last name."_

_"Be back in a flash. Put in a good word with your nurse for me," Lavi said with a wink. Allen rolled his eyes._

_Lavi made his way down to the lobby and met a charming receptionist. Her hair was wound in a tight bun, so tight he worried for his scalp, but her eyes were soft when she looked up from her computer._

_"May I know what room Nea Campbell is staying in? He's one of the patients from the fire last night and his roommate is worried sick," Lavi said while resting his elbows on the counter, smiling bewitchingly at the lady._

_"Only family is allowed to request that information," she stated while trying to keep her eyes anywhere but on his._

_Lavi pouted childishly. "Is that so? My friend is just so worried..."_

_"...But if it's for his roommate," she watched Lavi's face light up, "I guess it couldn't hurt to look."_

_"Thanks so much. You're a doll," Lavi said with another pleasant smile._

_She smiled back with a rosy blush before popping a piece of bubblegum as she flipped through the forms, eventually looking up with a confused expression._

_"I'm afraid that no "Nea Campbell' checked in last night. There aren't any records for him at this hospital. Are you sure he wasn't taken to a different one?"_

_"I'm with the guarda, see, so I work directly with the Emergency Response team. I'm positive all of the victims were all taken here," Lavi added, "and there weren't enough survivors to need an extra hospital."_

_"Well," she shrugged, "he's not on our forms. Are you sure he was in the building that night?"_

_"Allen-I mean, his roommate, was convinced he was."_

_"Well, then," she stopped and lowered her voice, "are you sure he wasn't in one of those body bags?"_

_Lavi hadn't considered this, nor was he prepared to tell Allen such horrible news._

_"Then again, if he was in the same area your friend was, he should've lived too, right? There are some EMT's still hanging around from last night in the break room down the hall. Wouldn't hurt to ask them."_

_"Ya can ask me," a thick Scottish voice said from behind him. "It was my building, 'fterall."_

_She was old but spritely, with fraying, ginger hair and was leaning on her cane with a grave darkness beneath her eyes._

_"Do you know Allen Walker? I think he lived in Apartment 9 or 10, top floor?"_

_"Allen? Of course I knew 'im," her face grew funny, "he was a strange lad. Paying for a double room apartment for just one person? I could never understand 'im. He would hand me exactly half his rent, then come back a quarter later with the other 'alf, actin' like he hadn't walked in just moments before. And-"_

_"Are you saying Allen didn't have a roommate?"_

_"No," she said slowly. "He was the only one up there. Sometimes I'd come visit him; he seemed like the lonely type, ya know? The weather around here can send folks into a real sadness. I did hear him talking to another a lot, though. I figured it was to his cat. Strange fellow, though, keeping two closets in separate rooms, even marking food with someone else's name. 'Thought he had a partner for a while. But no one came to visit the lad, 'cept for you once or twice."_

_"Aha," Lavi started, letting out a nervous, spiteful laugh. "Haha."_

_The old woman and the desk attendant shared a worried look._

_"And I'm supposed to tell him he imagined a roommate?"_

_"I doubt it was just imagination. Someone else was living with him, but just-" she tapped the side of her temple, "-up there, instead of out here." She began to limp away, using her cane to support her weight._

_"Wait, I do have a few more questions for you," Lavi said, remembering that he had an actual job to do. Her building was the reason all these people were dead, after all._

_Technically he was off the clock, but getting a statement before this woman disappeared would make the assistant commissioner happy. But what came out of her mouth next was so strange that Lavi let her walk out the door, never to be seen again._

_"Many say that Ireland is so blessed, beautiful, so untainted by foul men," the old woman replied while heading for the door, giving Lavi one last look. "But the darkness in this land cannot be quenched, conquered, snuffed out. There are 'a many evils in this world that you must run from; that 'ya must admire for their beauty, their blessing, their purity in the same way that 'ya worship the light."_

_"If you don't, you'll be swallowed 'hole."_

* * *

 "I'll give it my best shot," Allen finally replied cheerily. "I can't promise to be of any help, though."

"That's the spirit! Sort of!" Lavi replied, slurring the last half.

The owner eventually shooed them out, since it was long past closing and they had no more money to spend.

"Ah, I miss this," Lavi mumbled, still smiling as they headed out of the pub and into the streets.

Allen carefully followed his friend's poor footing, making sure Lavi didn't spill out onto the moon-bathed streets. They made their way over to a bridge, made of impressive stone with four lifelike angel statues on each corner of the bridge. The angels usually made him feel safe, as if this was a tiny sanctuary. But today, he felt restless. Watched, even.

"It's cold as BALLS out here tonight, ain't it? Summer, my ass," Lavi howled.

The angels, with their perfectly sinister sculpted faces bathed in moonlight, threw malevolent glances at him. A singular cloud floated past the moon, and suddenly he could see the evil within the statues; the sharp black shadows and hollow eyes bore into him. He'd been so focused on the angels he forgot Lavi.

"This! I miss THIS!" Lavi shouted, nearly throwing himself over the side of the bridge once they'd begun crossing it.

"Okay, okay," Allen pulled him back from his near death in the freezing Abbey River, but still laughed at the spectacle they were making.

"What do you miss?"

"Look, at the moonlight on the water. It's like we're at the North Pole."

"That doesn't answer my question, Lavi."

"Look!" He pointed with drunken excitement at the river they stood above.

It was a cloudless night, and the shards of moonlight looked like polar ice floes on the indigo swell. A swan suddenly came from beneath them and broke apart the thinner ice with quick sweeps of its tail.

"That there's an Irish Polar Bear," Lavi whispered while pointing, "better not get too close or you'll lose a finger!" Allen started laughing, confident it was the alcohol that suddenly made Lavi's jokes funny, and held onto the bridge for support in fear he might keel over. Suddenly a flash went off in his face.

"I miss this." Allen wiped his eyes and let out a few more giggles before looking up. Lavi had his phone open to the camera app, showing an unflattering picture he'd just taken of Allen, cheeks red from laughing to hard with a big grin on his face.

"We used to be," Lavi latticed his own hands for emphasis, "close, before the fire. God, the fucking fire. Now I just ask you for help on cases and it's- it's bloody terrible! I miss getting kicked out of bars, if that makes any sense. I want us to be friends again, you know?"

Allen smiled and held out his gloved hand. "Friends again?"

"Friends."

* * *

 BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

He lazily swiped at the end table until the alarm clock stopped screaming at him, and pulled at the blanket. God, he was freezing, and, God, did his head hurt from drinking too much last night. The blanket didn't budge. He pulled again. Nothing.

"Stop hogging it you evil, evil little demon," Allen grumbled while using his sleepy strength to free the slightest corner of the covers.

"Mmmph." The other rolled over and Allen lost all the blanket left to his name.

He sat up and slammed his hands down on the sheets. "Are you serious, Nea? No, you can't be serious. You're inside my head, you can't even get cold! You're a torturer sent from Satan himself, an evil fairy with fangs and-"

Nea lifted his head out from the blanket and gave a sleepy, wry smile. "You're in a great mood this morning, lovely. And I'm here, it's cold, and if you dislike me so much, then send me away!"

"I would ship you to the recesses of Antarctica if possible," Allen muttered as he got up. "I would ship you to a deserted island, a sinkhole in the middle of the desert-"

"Sinkholes aren't found in the desert," Nea corrected, standing up while wearing the blanket as a cape.

"Besides, you need me, Allen. I'm your intuition, your guide; how could you help Lavi without this blanket thief?"

"Shoot!" Allen knew he was forgetting something. He was supposed to meet Lavi today to go over the case details, and by looking at the clock, he had fifteen minutes before he was totally late. He tried to put on his shirt quickly, not wanting to see the scarred flesh and angry scarlet hues. Next came his gloves, which hid the rest of the open skin.

It was strange how such little pieces of fabric gave him such security.

Nea was pouting now that Allen had been rude and ignored him for several minutes as he hurried to get dressed. "You couldn't have solved any of your last cases without my abilities. Really Allen, you're so mean to me when all I do is help!"

Allen rubbed his temples. "Yes, yes, you're wonderful. Fantastic. Now remember what I said about talking to me in public?"

"I think you said," Nea tapped his finger on his lips and pretended to be lost in thought, "sarcastic comments are great, and you love hearing my voice."

With a heavy sigh, Allen grabbed his phone and headed out the door. This was his life: living with a phantom that he had no memory of picking up. After the fire, he saw a therapist. And another. And another. Once they considered having him committed to an institution for observation, he decided it was time to try something else.

He researched the building for any hint of paranormal, but there was no answer there. Nea refused to answer any of his questions, and only left him more frustrated. The taxi outside beeped, shaking him out of his daze. He climbed in the back seat and shut the door, relieved to find he was alone with the driver.

"Shall we?" Nea said brightly, appearing beside him. He was talking a mile a minute. "I sure hope the case is about a serial killer. We haven't had much action lately, but this town just screams _murder_ to me. Are you not excited? I'm excited."

It had been a nice few seconds.

* * *

**A/N: Yo! I usually post over on ff.net but I'm trying out ao3! (It seems like everything is easier to tag and a little neater).**


	2. How to Get Banned from a Crime Scene

The rain came down in sheets; fat and iron clouds smeared the sky in blurred graphite stains. His stomach folded inward like origami on crumpled paper. Nea prattled on like a mosquito that couldn't be swatted.

Pleasantries were quietly exchanged in the charged seconds after the taxi door slammed. He watched water droplets slam against the glass window, and then swerve downward in a jagged hustle.

Two raindrops raced towards the bottom of the window. They fused into one, never reaching the bottom.

* * *

"Lavi's was waiting outside for us! How quaint," Nea said as the cab came to a halt.

Allen quietly hummed in response, and pulled his raincoat tighter before he exited the cab. The building was hugging the fine line between antique and decay. The constant rain darkened and dirtied the three floors of jammed red brick; the color reminded him of blood.

Lavi was standing out front, but he wasn't anxiously awaiting Allen's arrival. Forced laughter and reddened cheeks gave him away. He was making-what looked like-very awkward chatter with another officer.

Lavi scratched the back of his head and adjusted his uniform, nearly spilling coffee on the dark haired woman.

"That's the girl he's always talking about, isn't it?" Nea pointed and smirked.

Allen rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, "Nea, it's rude to point. And talk, while we're at it."

"You're cranky," Nea glanced at his broken watch, "right on schedule! Oh, don't glare at me like that. I'll be quiet if you save that poor girl from getting coffee poured on her the next time he makes a joke."

There wasn't a deal on God's green earth that would quiet him, but Allen didn't feel like feeding his pessimistic mood this morning. He would make any number of questionable deals in exchange for a moment of peace.

Allen called out to Lavi and ran to the cover the building provided.

Lavi smiled brightly and waved. "Hey, Allen! Sleep through your alarm clock again?"

"Something like that."

There was an awkward pause like a sputtering tailpipe as everyone wrestled with the appropriate flow of conversation. Finally, the woman held out her hand, slender but tough. The delicate construction of her palm despite the callouses made him wonder how many times she had drawn a firearm.

"I'm Lenalee. Nice to finally meet you!"

Allen met her hand and questioned, "Finally?"

"Well, you've helped the department out more than a few times, but I've never actually met you. Lavi talks endlessly about you."

Allen laughed nervously (Lavi did, too), not knowing himself as a man of reputation. And when he finally met her eyes, he saw kindness exuding from behind her lashes. The overwhelming-almost forced-gentleness suggested something deeper, a hidden wariness, but he shrugged it off.

"You're a regular celebrity, Mr. Walker," Nea teased, and Allen tried his best not to make a sour face.

"We're sort of a little family here," she said, ushering him into the building as the rain picked up.

_A family, huh,_ he wondered as he followed the pair in.

* * *

It took him two tries to go through the metal detector-his keys and his watch served as loud, obnoxious introductions. The officer standing by just laughed a little and introduced himself after the beeping ended. Allen was too nervous to remember his name.

Lavi led him through a dingy corridor, half brick, half window. This station smelled like a hospital, but with less antiseptic and more burnt coffee. Almost all of the offices had their shades drawn.

"Talk about depressing. The fluorescent light might be giving me chemical burns," Neah whined, trying to see in the closed office doors.

"My office is on the left over here," Lavi said, pulling out a giant ring of jangling keys.

Allen noticed masking tape peeling off the little plaque next to the door: "Office 49 - Lavi Bookman". There was a mailbox stuffed to the brim underneath, papers threatening to fall to the floor like dead leaves.

"Yeah, I'm a little behind," Lavi joked when he noticed Allen staring.

"Oh, I didn't mean-"

"No, it's hard not to notice. If you think that's bad," Lavi opened the door and gestured, "try finding a place to sit. The coffee machine is buried on the table over to the left. There should be some left."

It looked as if someone had dumped a library inside of this tiny cement box: the desk had ten foot piles of books and files, the chairs were a dumping ground for parcels of all sizes and shapes, the floor was a snowdrift of papers.

"Don't worry about stepping on anything," Lavi said nonchalantly.

"You either have to run or sit down. Fight or flight, Allen. Face the environmentally conscious man's nightmare," Neah said, giving him a little push.

"Right," Allen said slowly, tugging his gloves a little tighter before stepping in the room.

Papers crunched beneath his feet feigned indifference. The coffee machine was easily uncovered; he filled a Styrofoam cup with boiling, amber caffeine.

He sat down in the flurry of paper and felt all his nerves light up. What was it about this room, this mess, this lack of control-

"... possible serial killer."

He choked on the hot coffee, eyes watering a bit. "Excuse me? A serial killer, here, on the outskirts of Limerick? I haven't seen anything in the papers-"

Nea was silently mock cheering and pointing at himself with such an exuberance that Allen could hear him reciting _"I told you so!"_ for the next month.

"We've got a week before the press publicly beheads us. You know what all the rags have to say about our," he cleared his throat, "proficiency at doing our job lately. I'm going to drive you out to the body we found. I'm technically on probation, but this stations' too undermanned for it to be serious."

"Probation?" Allen raised an eyebrow.

"Just a clerical error with some, er, misplaced paperwork," he grinned sheepishly.

Allen laughed and shook his head. "So what qualifies as a possible serial killer?"

Lavi thumbed through the stack of manila folders on his desk.

"Well, only two bodies have turned up so far. But the style and precision-"

"Style?" Allen questioned.

"Precision?" Nea's ears practically perked up.

"He's turning people into mannequins. Not something two people get the idea of doing."

"He-I- What?"

Lavi didn't respond but motioned at the door with a wary glance. Footsteps and idle chatter crescendoed then faded. Allen closed the door, but Lavi seemed more restless.

"Seems as if someone doesn't want anyone in his family knowing about this," Nea whispered.

"I'll explain on the way. Here," Lavi placed the thin folder in Allen's arms.

They snaked through the halls, and the secretive nature of closed doors and shutters made a bit more sense.

A voice peeked out from behind the front desk. "Heading out?"

"Yeah, we're just going to check out a scene," Lavi replied while quickening his face.

She crossed her arms and spoke with a voice twice her height. "Oh! So _all_ your paperwork is organized and ready to file!"

Allen squinted to see the receptionist's name. Fou.

Lavi edged toward the door. "Almost done, just need to cross my I's and dot my-"

The fire in her eyes matched the apricot, choppy locks escaping her bun. "Lavi! I have every wanker ten ranks above you ready to bury me alive! In your unfinished paperwork! Don't run away from me!"

Lavi yanked Allen outside before the shouted obscenities turned into a crime scene.

"Scary," Lavi whispered as he fished for his keys.

Allen stifled a laugh. Her voice may have rattled him, but there was a fondness in her tone that loosened the tension in Lavi's face.

_A family,_ he decided.

* * *

He climbed into the passenger seat of Lavi's car, a perk of being such a well-known detective. Being part of the emergency response team also meant he carried a firearm, unlike the rest of the local police force. But when he thought of Lenalee's hands, he wondered.

Lavi turned up the scanner and flipped his headlights on. The negative space between the voices soon became too apparent; he flipped open the manilla folder.

He also wondered what Lavi wasn't telling him-being such a high profile officer-always visiting this town, this station. Or why he consulted Allen, when his rank was somewhere above a student assistant but below an inspector.

It was strange how they met; Allen worked as a bartender at a dusty little pub. It wasn't a stop on any tourists' map, and sometimes the place got too rowdy in the evening, but overall, it was quaint and drowzy. Lavi tumbled in after some earth-shattering breakup, which after three pints was the only talk Allen heard for the rest of the night. And that same night, Lavi, the complete stranger, crashed on Allen's couch for he was a bit too nice for his own liking and didn't want to drag him out to sleep on the curb.

Neah had been a regular at the pub, he remembered, and they had eventually gotten so close that they roomed together. Allen now realized that somewhere between his job and the fire he'd lost his mind.

He tried not to think about it.

Allen made a second attempt to focus on the folder.

"Have you just started the investigation?" Allen asked with a furrowed brow. "There's not much here."

"That's because we have next to nothing," he replied with a sigh. "The killer is neat; we can't pick up a single print, not even on the bodies. 'Still waiting on the bloodwork. One of the bodies is two weeks old; the other passed sometime in the last 24 hours. The first body was already taken away, but I asked them to leave one on site so you could take a look."

He made a drastic turn around a roundabout. The rain continued to lash out at the car.

"Lucky me," Allen muttered.

He nearly whacked his head into the window with the force of the turn.

"There's one connection we have made," Lavi turned down the scanner. "They were both patients at the same hospital. 'Went missing in the middle of the night, turned up like this. We're trying to get footage from the security cameras but explaining why we need it is another mountain of paperwork."

"Well, if it's in connection with the patient's disappearance, then there's no need to tell them anything more than that," Allen replied.

"No, we need all their footage. The murders were too clean he pursed his lips, "to be the guy's first kill."

"Jesus, Lavi, what are you suggesting?"

"I'm not suggesting anything, I'm just," he grasped for a word, "unsettled. I'm just unsettled by this whole thing."

Lavi's whole body had an unfamiliar tenseness to it; usually he was much more laid back, especially with darker cases. _A healthy curiosity,_ he would tell Allen.

The rain slowly let up, leaving behind a grey, sluggish haze. The car slid to a stop.

"We're here."

"A clothing shop?"

Thick fog hugged the peeling, pastel building, no different from the others it was wedged between. Aside from all the yellow tape covering the entrance and a guard hovering nearby.

"This store was abandoned months ago. The owner died, and their relatives refused to have anything to do with it, according to the report. We're assuming this was the killer's base of operation due to the articles found inside," Lavi replied.

Lavi grabbed a pen from the on-duty officer's shirt pocket to sign the chain of custody. The officer holding the clipboard was unamused.

He recognized this officer; the man was well defined in the face, cheekbones like coral shelves and skin like smoothed sea glass. But his expression was always a thunderstorm over the ocean, with hair imitating the arctic seas, lacking waves and simply liquid black.

The officer outside gave Allen a vapid look before saying, "Make sure you don't take off your latex gloves in there and fuck up the scene. And Lavi," he handed Lavi a pair of gloves while rolling his eyes, "protocol applies even to sell-out officers. We're already up our asses in violations from leaving bodies lying around just because you can pull strings. Don't make me request some identification from this airhead, or even mention how many times he's been on the scene unauthor-"

"I'm authorized now," Allen said with a curt smile, "So there's no need for the hostility anymore."

The man looked as if he was considering spitting on Allen's scuffed shoes. He wasn't sure he had seen someone look so bored and deeply annoyed at the same time.

Allen held out a hand. "I'm Allen."

"Don't contaminate the crime scene so I have to remember your name." He huffed out poisonous air and turned on his heel, hair nearly whipping Allen in the face.

"You're so good at making friends," Nea commented.

Allen glared white-hot lasers into the man's back until Lavi pulled him away.

They ducked underneath the tape and entered through a smudged glass door; the shop's bell chimed gleefully in the ominous silence.

An instant later, the bell snapped off the doorframe in a jarring melody and smashed into the tile, filling the whole room with one, broken note.

"We'll just tell Kanda that was already broken," Lavi said, laughing nervously.

Allen took a moment to catch his breath before asking, "Who?"

"The guy out front. He takes a little 'getting to know."

"Seems like a right wanker to me," Allen muttered.

Lavi smirked. "I never said he wasn't."

Dust encrusted racks of secondhand clothes filled the space, with mannequins that looked like they were straight from the eighties. Some of the mannequins lacked arms or heads or legs, with porcelain discolored like stained teeth.

_"_ _Mannequins."_

_"_ _He's turning people into live mannequins…"_

Allen jumped when he realized someone was sitting on a bench near racks of cluttered shoes.

"The mannequin you're looking for is in the shop window," Neah said, jabbing his thumb to the left.

Allen slowly made his way over, hearing Neah's hollow footsteps treading behind him like his shadow. Goosebumps ran up and down his arms.

"Someone said they saw the mannequin blink while walking by, 'told us it was covered in blood," Lavi said. "Sounds like someone takin' the piss with the cops at 5 am after too many drinks, right?"

"So why'd you come down?" Allen asked.

"They held their cell phone up to the shop window. And I could hear, through the phone," Lavi stopped and sighed, "a low, painful moan. It was like some kind of animal being tortured. Wasn't right."

"Nobody heard it during the day, 'with all the cars."

Allen stopped at the shop window and almost felt awe; a sickening wonder bubbling up in his stomach. There was only one mannequin in the shop window.

The body was almost unrecognizable. Coated in a thin layer of plastic, maybe fiberglass, she had been cast molded into a life-sized doll. He felt reminded of the chocolate coating on candy. Every detail was impeccable except for the eyes and a small opening where the lips parted left uncovered.

She could see. She could breathe.

The clothes on the model were white, stained with rancid blood, but he couldn't make a distinguishable shape out of the spatters. The closer he looked, the more it didn't make sense; the stitches on the shirt were hand sewn, but uneven and puckering.

"So they don't know how to sew, but felt that they had to do it," Nea murmured, pulling at the fabric.

Allen hummed and stepped up on the platform to look at her from the front.

Her eyes were a brilliant shade of green fighting behind a milky haze of death and decay. They were staring straight through him, past the window and muddy streets. He wondered how long she'd been propped up here.

He wondered why she didn't smell yet, but the blood on her clothes did. Maybe the plastic was to preserve her, but why?

"The crease in the arm, look, look," Nea stole Allen's attention, and he absently thumbed a hole in the pure plastic coating, right where a needle might be stuck.

"We didn't even see that the first time around," Lavi muttered, looking more closely.

Allen jumped, realizing it was his own thumb touching the indent.

"Was the guy drugging them?"

"Maybe," Allen felt the coffee bubbling in his stomach, "or maybe it was to keep her alive longer."

Lavi nodded with interest.

"Why hasn't she been taken to the morgue already? How did you even ID her?"

"Well, her medical bracelet was placed over this, coating, of sorts. Had her name and the hospital ID on it. We're trying to get her to a lab for processing before-"

"A lab?" Red, bubbling, boiling-over anger. A controlled, venomous response. "Hasn't she suffered enough?"

Nea rolled his eyes. "Do you expect the family to crack her open like a walnut and have an open casket funeral? There's probably evidence underneath there. And human sludge."

Allen feigned indifference to Nea but rolled his eyes.

"I suppose so," Lavi replied, watching Allen curiously.

"No," Allen leaned in to look at the shirt, "the killer purposefully left her medical bracelet on so we could ID her. Even watch footage of her abduction, possibly. There won't be any evidence underneath the coating unless it's meant to mislead us."

"Or maybe we don't have to search that hard," Nea murmured, lifting up her shirt and gliding over a strange indentation.

The closer he looked at the reeking fabric, the more it appeared to have actual shapes. Maybe even an angel's wing on the sleeve, if he squinted.

"Do you mind if I lift up her shirt?" Cold, calculated, bone-white anticipation. "I think there's something underneath."

Lavi was a little taken aback, but nodded.

"Can you help me move her down from the shop window first?" He said in a quiet voice.

"R-Right."

Allen hopped back up on the shop window and met her gaze. Green, mold on wonder-bread, complete unwavering despair.

A muffled voice from outside shattered the silence. _"What the fuck do you two think you're doing?"_

Allen jumped out of his skin and lost his footing. He inhaled the rusted iron, the sugar-coated scent of rotting meat, and threw his arms out to escape the shirt's aroma. Lavi yelped and recoiled.

Resin cracking. Shattering. Exploding in a burst of noise and sound.

The mannequin toppled over with such grace that he could only watch in stupor.

"Earth to Allen. You have 30 seconds before the asshole out front kicks your ass."

The dark skin beneath oozed like watery Jello out onto the floor. The smell burned his nose. Allen ignored his stomach churning and slipped the shirt off. Beneath, the coating cracked in an extremely strange way, almost as if-

_"_ _You two have got to be fucking kidding me. What did I say about not contaminating…"_ He let the ringing in his ears overtake the man shouting at him.

Nea picked at the resin on her stomach, excavating the plastic until his nails couldn't pry up a piece shaped exactly like the number one.

"He carved a message into her skin," Allen whispered, picking away the pieces that came up.

"And filled the cuts with the plastic coating so his message wouldn't be lost," Nea finished.

"The skin is too distorted to keep the original picture. It looks like a," Allen squinted, "a number one, maybe a three over there. Inside a plus sign?"

Nea tilted his head. "It looks like there's an arrow extending from the two over to the one. Is it a cross? Maybe the direction you pray with a rosary?"

"Coordinate plane," Allen blurted out, "It's a coordinate plane! The arrows are directions, but for what? A map?"

"Maybe there's a piece of paper he left somewhere," Nea offered.

Someone grabbed his arm and attempted to pull him away. "Are you fucking listening to me?"

Allen looked up; the guarda from outside looked like he was about to commit murder.

An epiphany. The half of an angel wing on the sleeve.

"The shirt!" Allen jerked his arm loose and crawled over to the shirt.

_"_ _Hey!"_

He folded the sleeves underneath and unbuttoned the fabric until he had a giant square.

"I'll direct you, just give me a second," Nea said.

"Don't have a second," Allen muttered.

"Okay, okay, don't rush me. Let's see, start at one, go to two. Simple enough. Take the top left corner," Nea traced the body lightly, "and fold it to the bottom right corner."

The fabric was a triangle now, and it still looked like a bloodstained shirt.

"From the bottom right corner, we move to three, so top right corner," Nea scratched away more, "looks like you fold it out to the right."

Allen didn't have time to question him.

"Hey, Pull the sleeves out," Nea said.

His hands fumbled with the fabric. Someone roughly grabbed him by the shoulder.

With the sleeve extended, he saw it: a tiny wing extending from the sleeve onto the piece of shirt folded above it.

"Bottom left to top right."

A torso-he could see a small torso attached to the wing now.

"Top right out to the left. Wait, this number has two arrows. One goes left and one goes down."

Left. Half a face, Half of something spattered above it.

Down. The other half of the face, praying hands for his angel.

An angel made of blood. The spatter on the face made the figure appear to be crying.

"Flip it over. Although you may want some ice first."

Allen looked over at Nea in confusion.

Impact. Skin crashing against skin, five bloodied knuckles straightening his British smile, blood and spit pooling in the corner of his mouth. Unbridled rage, not belonging to him.

" _Do you hear me?!"_

He held his jaw and glanced back over at the shirt.

"Are you kidding me? So help me God, if you don't get your ass off the scene right-"

"Just a second, Kanda," Lavi said, crouching down next to the shirt.

"Holy shit," Lavi gasped and leaned in, "an angel? What does it mean?"

Kanda glared daggers. "How did you-"

"Flip it over," Allen said with a hint of a lisp.

Lavi looked at him strangely, but did as he was told.

In shaky blood stains:

_Sal m 10 6:38._

"Salm? Sam, or samantha maybe?" Lavi questioned.

"It's old gaelic," Nea said. "It's a bible passage. Salm means Psalms; looks like one 'oh six, thirty eight."

"They shed innocent blood, the blood of their sons and daughters, whom they sacrificed to the idols of Canaan," Nea paused, and Allen realized he was talking aloud.

"And the land was desecrated by their blood."

* * *

"What happened to your mouth?"

"'Got punched," Allen replied, cleaning the inside of a glass with a spare rag.

The dim lighting and cracked leather always made business seem slow, but the bar was slow tonight, slower than usual. So slow that the owner bothered to make an appearance.

He puffed a cigarette and hummed. "Who'd you piss off?"

Allen grabbed the cigarette and stubbed it in the sink. "You know that's bad for business. Smoke outside."

"And who's the boss 'ere?"

"The guy who is actually here working every day, I'd assume, Cross."

"Do you want a matchin' black eye?"

"Do you want to pay me worker's compensation?"

Cross looked surprised, then laughed in a flurry of red strands. "What's got you in a bad dose?"

"Shit day," Allen responded, idly cleaning the spotless table.

"You can toss everyone out on 'he hour. Costs me more to owe you than keep these langers here," Cross replied, lighting another cigarette.

"Speak English, for the love of-"

"You've been in Ireland for yonks and 'ya still speak like a British schoolboy," Cross drawled while heading to the stairs. "Loosen up a tad."

"You've got to be doing that on purpose," Allen said and rolled his eyes.

"'Night," Cross mumbled, then added, "Or _cheerio_ , in your right and proper 'Queen's English."

Cross lived in a small apartment above the bar, which Allen didn't notice until Cross brought company over on a quiet night. He wasn't sure how the man kept this place running before him.

"I'll try not to be too loud opening the bar in the morning while you're fighting off that murderous hangover," Allen called after him.

"'Night."

Within the hour, everyone stumbled and fumbled their way to the door. A peaceful silence settled in with the dust and old, brown leather. Allen wiped everything down and quietly slipped out, locking the door behind him.

"Great, rain," Allen muttered as ugly drops splattered on the sidewalk.

Pulling his trenchcoat over his face, he decided to brave the elements in the pursuit of sleep. If he ran, he could probably beat the worst of it.

"It's only over the old bridge and a few blocks," Nea said cheerfully.

The bridge?

The bridge.

Lively footsteps turned to dead weight when he reached the crest of the stone bridge. He stopped completely, letting the rain drench through to the bone.

This feeling, from the other night. The stone angels on each corner of the bridge, almost blackened by the rain, seemed to be staring straight through him.

"Creepy, like the eyes on a haunted portrait," Nea said cautiously. "Must be a trick of the rain."

He took a few steps closer.

"Let's go home. It's pouring."

Terrified, green jade bored holes in his skin.

The same eyes of the mannequin.

Except, this time the eyes were moving.

* * *

 


	3. You Shouldn't Compare Your Coworkers to Rotten Eggs

A low smog of clouds hung heavy around him, stealing the light from the sky. The dusk sky sobbed in waves. Blustering rain drenched the streets, threatening to drown him on the cobblestone bridge.

He rooted at the foot of the bridge with a gnarled expression, facing up at the statue. The dim streetlights flickered, and the angel’s venomous green eyes flashed in the light.

The roar of the storm. The blood pulsing in his ears. The water rushing beneath his feet.

A second of darkness. A flash of light. A pair of vivid jade pupils begging for attention. A second of darkness. A flash of light. The eyes, bulging and bloodshot,  _the eyes-_

Allen couldn’t bring himself to look away.

Nea reached into Allen’s pocket and yelled, “Call Lavi, he’ll know how to handle this!”

The flickering streetlamp threw shadows of horrid creatures climbing out of the cobblestone only to disappear moments after; the shadow of rain dripping down an angel, almost like blood.

Nea shoved the phone into his hand. “Call him!”

“I’m going to help you!” Allen yelled, but his voice broke and uncertainty clung to every word.

“Blink twice if you can hear me!”

He noticed how small the statues were now; much tinier than him, folded in a praying motion with eyes towards the ground.

If he didn’t know any better, the statues looked about the size of a 10 year old child. 

He stomach started to churn.

A blink, shuttering and difficult. A second blink, resonating through the rain in a flash of the streetlamp.

“I can’t do this,” Allen said while holding his stomach.

He was starting to hyperventilate, his body refusing the earthy rain and oxygen in the air and instead pumping exhaust fumes through his lungs.

Nea repeated, “You can make a phone call. Get the people trained to handle this down here.” 

_How could Nea act so calm; was part of his subconscious not in absolute upheaval?_

He tried, four times, to flip his phone open before his trembling hands dropped the phone. Nea sighed and picked it up, opening it on the first try. 

“Shit,” Nea started angrily clicking buttons, “Shit! This thing is soaking wet. You have a plan B?”

Pure adrenaline like a bump of cocaine and a shot of liquor. 

“I’m coming back for you. I have to get help!” Allen yelled.

The lamp flickered. The statue blinked twice. He felt shivers down his spine.

“There’s a payphone down on East-,” Allen ran, ignoring Nea, “Hey! That’s back towards the-!”

“The bar is closer!”

“You’re,” Nea seemed a bit disturbed at the prospect, “right. Hold on, _You’re right?_ ”

“Less disbelief, more running!”

“Why do we have to run? They aren’t going to up and walk away,” Nea whined, trailing behind him. 

He fumbled with the wet keys until finally one fit in the slot. The door opened a full 5 inches and wormed his arm in to unlock the deadbolt.

His clumsiness--he put too much weight on the door when it swung open-- dodged the swing of a baseball bat.

“Hey!” Allen yelled, seeing the assailant ready another swing, “Cross, damn it, it’s me!”

“Oh.” He put the baseball bat down. “You can’t tell the difference between you n’ an old homeless man in the dark, ‘ya know? Uncanny.”

“I need to use the phone.”

“Use your own phone.” 

“It’s broken.”

“How’d ‘ya broke another?”

“Break, you mean.”

Cross gave him a funny look. “What?”

“Allen, we don’t have time for this,” Nea said.

Allen pushed past Cross and started dialing on his landline.

“Police or hospital first?” Allen muttered.

His first instinct was to call in an emergency, but all cover the case had from the press would be lost. Although, he didn’t know if that was going to hold much longer.

“All hell is going to break loose when four ambulances wake everyone in town up,” Nea replied.

“The station, then,” he whispered.

“I’ll dial, I doubt you remember Roxboro’s station anyway,” Nea replied, quickly pressing buttons.

“Who’r you talkin to?” Cross asked, sitting on a chair in a huff. “Why ya ‘callin the police?”

Fou’s voice broke the silence. _“Roxoboro Road Guarda Station, how can I help ‘ya?”_

He looked at Cross who was waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, it’s Allen, I was wondering if Lavi was in?” Allen replied cautiously.

 Cross raised an eyebrow.

_“Oh, we met earlier today! You got your inspector number on ‘ya? Sorry, gotta know, it’s protocol before I answer any questions.”_

“Uh,” Allen fumbled through his clothes until finding his laminate, “yeah, it’s 564zx0.”

“Inspector?” Cross asked, laying the baseball bat loosely over his shoulder. “You never told me you worked for the Garda.”

Allen put a hand over the receiver. “Just consultation work, bits and pieces.”

"Bits and pieces," Cross murmured. 

“ _Proper! Well, Lavi’s never bloody here when he needs to be. I think he’s up in Dublin this evening, if he’s-”_

“He’s not there?”

_“Nope, sorry. Why don’t you call him on your cell? He won’t pick up a call from the station, God knows.”_

“It’s kind of an emergency,” Allen said quickly. “You know the scene we went to, this morning? Is there anyone else on that case?”

A pause, clacking on a keyboard. _“No shit, you guys did go to a scene this morning! I thought Lavi was just avoiding me. All the files are locked up because it’s the ERU’s case, not Roxboro’s. Whatcha guys investigating?”_

This was taking too long.

“Uhm, there was a guy on the scene this morning, a guy with a stick up his ass.”

“He probably has knowledge on the case if he was allowed to work the scene,” Nea said.

Fou laughed. _“A lot of officers like that, mate.”_

“He had,” Allen tried his best to remember the man, “ _real_ proper hair?”

Allen felt his jaw. “And his knuckles should be bruised .”

Fou was laughing so hard she snorted. _“You mean you got punched out by Kanda this morning? I have to tell-”_

“Kanda! That’s the name! Can you connect me to him?”

_“He might hang up on you.”_

“Please.”

 _“With such manners how could I say no,”_ Fou said cheerfully, and then snickered under her breath, _real proper hair._  

The line went dead, and then began ringing.

It rang three times. Allen wasn’t sure he would pick it up at all.

 _“What do you want?”_  

“You were working the scene this morning, down by the clothing shop, right?”

A pause. _“If I wasn’t, you’ve would’ve just breached confidentiality. Nice to know we’re hiring bloody-”_

Allen rolled his eyes. “Great. My jaw is fine, by the way, and I don’t plan on suing.”

_“I still plan on including how you two are royal idiots and destroyed the scene in my report.”_

“Allen,” Nea pointed at his watch, “four bodies on a bridge right now.”

“Right,” Allen quietly replied.

_“Right is right. You realize how much sh-”_

“Listen, I don’t care. I have-”

Kanda cut him off. _“You don’t care? You destroyed someone’s body, you-”_

“Of course I care. Listen! You know the bridge, down by High street? There are four angels on top of it!”

_“Yeah. Why? What does that-”_

“Angels.”

 _“Cut me off again and I’ll-”_ Kanda stopped.

_"You’re fuckin’ with me, right? This is your way of getting even, some prank call at midnight?”_

“Kanda!”

_“What?!”_

“There are four children propped up on a bridge, so if you could be a _doll_ and get down here before I call 999,” Allen’s hand was trembling and the phone threatened to shatter in his grip. “Just get down here with anyone working the case, now.”

A pause. He could tell Kanda cursed, but not into the receiver. _“On my way.”_

Kanda hung up. Allen broke into tears.

“What’s-” He burst out of the door before Cross could finish, phone still sitting on the bar.

* * *

He was staring up at the angel again, rain drizzling now in the streetlight’s hum of electricity. The river beneath sounded like a beast planning to devour him.

“What can I do?” He said quietly, watching the green eyed gaze nearly strangle him.

The eyes seemed to be following the same track--looking down at their hands, then back at Allen. 

“He’s trying to tell you something,” Nea yelled over the howling of the river. 

Allen watched the eyes again.

“Your hands?” Allen yelled.

The green eyes blinked once, then twice. This meager communication still sent Allen’s stomach tumbling.

Allen squinted and got closer to the bridge. A wadded up piece of paper seemed wedged between the statue’s hands.

He nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to reach it, but the statue was too far away. The walls of the bridge slowly ascended to the pedestals the angels were placed on, so he could possibly…

“Don’t even think about it. The rain has made everything too slippery,” Nea’s fingertips swiped the thin air behind Allen’s coat, “Hey!”

Allen jumped up onto the first platform and nearly lost his footing; the stone of the bridge was slick like river rocks.

“Bad idea, Walker. Those boots don’t have any tread left on them.”

He placed his foot on the next level, grabbing onto the wall to support him. A good idea, since when he brought his other foot up it gained no traction. His fingernails dug in the moss on the sidewalls while he regained footing.

“Are you having fun? Does giving me a heart attack give you pleasure? Get down before you bust your head open,” Nea hissed.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Allen huffed. “Stop distracting me. It’s not even that high.”

It was a dead-lift of his weight up to where the angel was placed. All his clothes clung to his skin and weighed at least 100 pounds more. 

He felt for the top of the platform--it was hard to see in the rain--and managed to secure both his hands on top.

“I need some kind of spray bottle. No, Sit, Stay,” Nea muttered, voice fading in with the river gushing past. “Anything but ‘fetch’. You’ve got that one down.”

Allen leaped and an elbow, two elbows made it atop the podium. His feet wrestled with the slimy rock, slipping the second he gained a foothold. After a few seconds of panic, he managed to get one foot in a crevice and pull his other leg up.

“My god, I need to work out more,” Allen puffed.

Nea was saying something, but it was lost in the wind and rain. He crouched and carefully stepped closer to the angel. Boots skidding and sliding, he readjusted so that he could crawl over on his hands and knees.

The eyes seemed like jewels molded in the statues sockets, piercing through the rain and directly at him. They seemed even more afraid.

“I called for help!” Allen yelled. “People are going to come get you down!”

The angel closed its eyes for a long time.

“Do you mind if I,” his voice faltered a little bit when he noticed the river below, “can I grab that paper in your hands?”

One blink. Two blinks.

“Thank you,” Allen said, trying not to shudder.

He got closer to the angel and noticed that it was a concrete coating, unlike the plastic from before. The coating had small cracks and was even chipped clean in some places.

Underneath, the skin was burned. Blistering, flaking. The deep indigo of overripe chemical burns. Black with decay and fatigue.

“You’ll be okay,” Allen choked out when the statue’s eyes fell on him.

It wasn’t true.

“I promise.”

Ink dripped from the sides of the paper and the writing was almost illegible. The writing was another bible verse.

John 3:3.

He didn’t know what it meant, but any religious person wouldn’t have done this.

 _Couldn’t_ , he thought, _this has to be a right fucking joke_.

A low moan, almost words, seemed to escape the statue’s mouth. Allen placed his ear up to the statue’s sculpted mouth, chipped to reveal pieces of raw, blistering lip.

_“..me…”_

_“Ill… me…”_

_“kill…”_

“Get the fuck down from there!”

_“me…”_

The piece of paper nearly tore in his grip. But he held his tears this time, with the officer below staring.

Allen looked down. The statue must have, too, because Kanda yelled an expletive and nearly slipped in the puddle underneath him. 

A few ambulances and two officer vehicles had arrived, with their lights turned off in some semblance of secrecy. The streets were empty this late, anyway.

“Take this before it gets ruined!” Allen yelled back, holding the piece of paper down.

Much to Allen’s dismay, it wasn’t that difficult for Kanda to grab it; in fact, he was almost as tall as the bridge sidewalls. Kanda held it beneath his hood and then looked back at Allen.

“What’s it mean?" 

Allen didn’t know, but he was sure Nea did. A very strange thought struck him.

_How did Nea know things he himself didn’t?_

He decided he had more pressing manners. The rain died down to a light drizzle, and he twisted to get off the bridge, nearly slipping into the river’s hungry mouth.

“Watch it! We didn’t bring an ambulance for you!”

He expertly jumped down from the podium, but his boots slid on the second platform. He yelped and attempted to grab thin air, but ended up in a sprawled, muddy heap on the stone ground.

“Do you have to be a disaster everywhere you go?” Kanda muttered, offering a hand.

Allen grabbed it, flushed with embarrassment.

“That’s a yes,” Nea muttered.

“Thanks.”

“How the fuck did you find them?” Kanda said.

“I was walking home from the pub-”

“This late? Are you drunk?”

“No, I just-” 

“We can’t use your testimony if you were intoxicated,” Kanda seemed to be fishing around for something in his pockets until he found a flashlight.

“Quit it!” Allen yelled when he flashed the light in his eyes. “I work at the pub right over there!”

Kanda squinted suspiciously. “Abc’s backwards. Go.”

“That’s not even possible if you aren’t intoxicated.”

Kanda raised an eyebrow.

“Wait, I’m not saying I am! Go ask the manager if you’re so inclined!” Allen replied indignantly.

“Kanda,” a cloud of smoke strode up to the pair arguing, “I hate to interrupt, but the first body we’ve taken in had some sort of message in between the hands. The ink is practically unreadable, but the lab might be able to get pen pressure. Probably not.”

He stopped and stared at Allen, soaking wet and now with added mud. “Enjoying the rain, are we? I’m Tyki. You must be Lavi’s friend.”

The man’s raincoat covered everything but his shining badge hanging loose and his face. He had a dark, rich tan and a mole right beneath his left eye. Allen almost wondered if it was drawn on with how perfectly it was placed.

He held out a hand, and Allen tentatively shook it with a wet glove. “Allen, nice to meet you. Are you his partner?” 

“Mmm, Kanda doesn’t like that word. Says it ‘cheapens’ his work to be associated with me. We’re more like,” he held a hand up to his chin, “estranged cousins, who have to be in the same place at the same time sometimes.”

Allen half smiled at this, not being able to laugh in the wake of the evening.

“Fuck, so we only have the one,” Kanda muttered, ignoring them. “Go grab the other notes and see if we can salvage any of the writing.”

“You have one? What’s it say?”

Kanda seemed hesitant to show Tyki.

“John 3:3,” Allen offered.

“A religious killer, oh boy,” Tyki muttered. “Any idea what that one means? I haven’t brushed up on my bible verses since the last priest threw himself in the river.”

Nea whispered, but did not show himself, “Truly, Truly I say to you, unless one is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.”

“Did Jesus say it? I bet our killer thinks he’s Jesus. Damn those Protestants,” Tyki sighed. “The Catholics never pull this.”

 _No,_ Allen thought, _Nea said that, not me._

“Probably just one side trying to stir up the other,” Kanda muttered.

“Well, anyway, craic work here, Allen! We’ve scheduled a briefing with the superintendent, the lovely Miss Lee, tomorrow evening. Why don’t you go home and get out of those wet clothes?” Tyki added.

“But I-”

“You’ve done all you can here,” Kanda muttered, then stalked off towards one of the ambulances.

“I think he ties his hair back too tight,” Tyki drew in smoke, “makes him cranky. He’s secretly impressed.”

“By the way.” Tyki leaned in close, and Allen smelt the bittersweet of cherry clove cigarettes.

“That’s a nasty _tais_ you’ve got hanging around, isn’t it?”

Before Allen could reply, Tyki threw a wave over his shoulder. “See you around, kid.”

* * *

 

“I’m not a kid, I’m twenty,” Allen mumbled back, fifteen minutes later as he trudged home.

“Good one,” Nea replied in a tired voice.

The streets were muddled in flooding drains and late evening fog. The adrenaline fizzled out; he was wet, cold, and miserable.

He would’ve called a taxi if he thought any of them would have him like this.

When he finally made it to his door, he spent much too long fumbling with the lock. Nea finally had to open it, and Allen immediately collapsed on the worn, leather couch. 

The efficiency apartment bordered the line between claustrophobic and cozy; it stayed an organized mess of files and old furniture. With no wall between the bedroom and kitchen, it seemed like work was slowly crept onto the laminate counters and wooden cupboards lately.

“You need to change,” Nea said with a disapproving look.

“In a moment,” Allen murmured, rubbing his eyes.

This couch had never seemed so comfortable.

“You’re really going to sleep like that, soaking wet?”

Allen let out a muffled sigh.

“You’re going to be late to the briefing tomorrow. And you’re going to get sick. And you’re going to ruin-”

Nea’s eyes always took on a fierce gold when he was trying to convince Allen, like melted-down expensive jewelry. His gaze grew fiercer, almost luminous compared to the slate blue of exhaustion Allen met him with.

“Wet clothes aren’t proven to make you sick,” Allen replied with a yawn. “And it’s in the evening.”

“Come on,” Nea pulled at his arm, “up an’ at ‘em! At least take those muddy boots off!”

Allen slid out of his boots and curled up on the couch. Water sloshed out of them and on the carpet, staining it in a muddy puddle.

“You’re like a baby,” Nea muttered, picking up the boots and throwing them on the front step, “a baby I’m somehow in charge of.”

“And you’re the most rubbish ghost ever,” Allen said. “Haunt a cemetery. Or that evil cop. Or anyone but me, for that matter.”

“The one with the real proper hair?” Nea smirked when Allen lifted his head up to glare.

“Oh, what was I supposed to say? He has nice hair! But his personality,” the corners of Allen’s mouth turned down, “he’s like when you think eggs on the counter are fresh, but you crack it open in the pan, and your whole apartment stinks for days.”

“You shouldn’t call your coworkers rotten eggs, Al.”

“Maybe not. But he is!”

“Go to sleep already.”

“You go to sleep,” Allen mumbled back, drifting off.

Nea sighed again, and sat down on the bed littered with files. Someone had to prepare for the briefing.

* * *

He was freezing; _did Nea steal the blanket again?_

Angrily sitting up, he realized he was not even in bed. He was on the couch, covered in mud and soaking wet clothing.

“Shit,” Allen muttered.

A large, soul-searching sneeze.

“Shit!”

A sing-song voice erupted from a mountain of papers on the bed. “I told you so!”

“Not now,” Allen muttered, stumbling his way to the shower.

He stopped with his hand on the bathroom door. “Did you not sleep?”

“No, I was too busy,” Nea replied with a yawn.

“Does that mean I didn’t sleep?”

Nea pondered this for a while, as if choosing what to say. “I have no idea. Depends on if you consider me a ghost or a cool personality subtype.”

Tyki’s words bubbled to the surface. He’d used an old gaelic word that meant something along the lines of ghost, but he didn’t know much else.

 _Could he sense Nea?_  

He decided it wasn’t the time to worry about this.

“Would going to church send you away?”

Allen never considered himself a religious man; a foster family or two he had back in London were keen on spending every Sunday on their knees. He’d enjoyed putting faith in God back then. However, cases like these made him a bit too cynical to open a bible.

“Hey, that’s not nice. You know who’s going to save you from looking like an idiot at the meeting? Hm?”

He stripped off the wet clothing and considered turning on the gas for a warm shower.

“You don’t have time to wait for the gas, Allen. We need to be at the station soon!” Nea yelled.

He tried to sigh, but ended up sneezing. From the other room, he could hear the TV blaring, a newscast on the "Entomber". 

* * *

“Everyone’s here that’s going to show, I guess,” Lenalee said with a hint of disappointment.

 A large group chattered in the central space of the station, sunlight dying outside the windows. The brick took on a golden hue on one side of the room, and illuminated the whiteboard Lenalee stood in front of. 

 Allen looked at the very empty seat next to him, a silence amidst the room vibrating with energy and conversation. He sneezed and heard faint laughter from Nea.

 “Lavi’s not coming,” Fou said as she plopped down in Lavi’s chair, “might as well get this show on the road!”

“I know. I just hoped the lead investigator of the case might deign himself-” Lenalee stopped herself, swallowing the anger.

“Anyway! I know there’s a lot of people in here, but that’s because the upper divisions want every officer we have on this case. Five bodies, guys, and we don’t even have a profile,” Lenalee said, bearing down on the whiteboard with the number 5.

“I thought it was six bodies,” someone called out. 

“No, a,” she flipped through a file, “Timothy Hearst, one of the kids from the bridge, is still fighting. They were all from the same orphanage, and the youngest was ten years old.” 

Allen could see she was looking at photos of the angels; her face grew saddened at the portfolio of burned skin.

“She’s just started the job, see, taking after her brother as superintendent,” Fou murmured.

“She cares too much to work with homicides, ‘ya ask me. Lenalee does a great job, but it eats her up inside. Just like her brother and his ‘early’ retirement.”

Fou suddenly looked at him with concern. “You found the bodies on the bridge, right? You holdin’ up alright?”

“Fine. It was a bit of a shock, but I’m fine,” Allen replied without making eye contact.

“Good to hear. We’ve got a counselor or two for the homicide department if you ever need to get it out without, you know, breaching confidentiality,” Fou replied.

“I know one of the ambulance nurses who was on the scene is taking ‘leave. Tough break for your first case.”

Allen nodded half-heartedly.

“Right. So what do we have on this guy so far?”

No one spoke.

“An old retired priest trying to stir up the religious dissension, teacher!” Tyki called out, waving at Allen.

Not waving at Allen, exactly, but almost below him.

Allen looked down, and sure enough, Nea had a report in his lap and was leaning against Allen’s leg.

“You should’ve saved me a chair,” Nea muttered as he flipped through the report. “Can that man really see me? Don’t answer that. But _can_ he?”

“Ask about the lab reports on the cement. I bet they rushed them last night and have 'em by now,” Nea added.

Allen noticed the silence in the room as Lenalee wrote “religious motive” on the whiteboard in red ink.

“Have the,” he faltered when he felt as if everyone’s eyes were on him, “I mean, have you received the lab reports on the cement he used for the bodies?”

Lenalee gave him a very odd look, then looked over at a mousey haired woman. “I don’t know, actually. We're still waiting on a few. Miranda?” 

“Yes, but what does the cement have to do with it?” Miranda squeaked out.

He didn’t know. Nea made sewing motions.

“Oh! He sewed the clothes himself, so he probably felt the need to make the cement! Which is why it didn’t adhere to the body perfectly and you could see,” Allen faltered again when everyone really was staring, “the, ah, skin underneath. Maybe if he used a certain type of material-” 

“Karst limestone, with trace seaweed!” Miranda shouted in excitement.

Nea and Miranda yelled in unison, “The islands!”

“Anyone want to explain that nonsense?” Kanda asked.

His arms were crossed, but he sat up just a bit from his slouched position. 

“Well, the limestone in the mix is really quite interesting! It’s karst limestone, which is usually in the Burren or over east. But, there’s trace seaweed in the composition, which means it can’t be inland! So the most likely choice is the Aran Islands, because of its-” 

“So he made the cement on an island. Keep going without the science shit,” Kanda drawled.

Miranda seemed to fold up like a flower bud. “Well, you see, then, I don’t-” 

“Don’t assault her,” Allen said while glaring at Kanda. “It’s not like transporting wet cement is easy. If he made it on those islands, you can bet he’s encasing the victims there. Which gives us somewhere to search, especially because everything is going in and out on boats.”

“So you want us to wait until he kills more people, and then possibly stop his little boat because of some rock?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Guys!” Lenalee yelled, reserving Kanda and Allen to quiet glares.

“Thank you. This is good work, Allen, Miranda,” Lenalee said cheerfully.

“He’s not an old priest, if it helps,” Fou added in the silence that returned.

“How do you mean?” Lenalee asked.

“The bible verses you have on the whiteboard, one’s from the old testament, one’s from the new testament. Old Catholics cling to the old testament, and newer folks’ incorporate more broad Christianity values, like the new testament. Anyone using the book of John and Psalms has a more liberal look on the bible.”

Fou beamed at all the attention, wearing an imaginary “not just a filing flunkie” badge.

“Real liberal, if it also includes the interpretation of murder,” a yawning boy muttered from beside Tyki.

“This is good, guys! Let’s put this on hold until the rest of the lab work comes back; speculating won’t get us far. Marie’s been manning the hotline, and a lot of people seem to be calling in. We’re going to investigate them all.”

Everyone in the room groaned.

Lenalee continued, “Don’t make those faces! Someone has to have seen something. I want everyone with their partner in case,” Lenalee stopped when she looked at Marie. “Just partner up, got it?”

“Well, back to the desk for me,” Fou said glumly. “See ‘ya.”

Allen suddenly felt very alone.

“Uhm, Marie, you want to go over some damage control with the press before the conference? I want to also see if we can get a roadblock and searches up on the islands and the city, as soon as possible,” She asked. “He’s transporting bodies 50 miles from the coast somehow.”

“Thank,” Allen almost didn’t hear the voice, “Thank you!”

He smiled when he recognized her. She was a bit unkempt, with flyaways and scattered papers in her arms. But the last rays of sunlight lit up her eyes, and seemed to surround her with a warm glow.

“I should be thanking you for spending all night processing everything. I hope you managed to sleep,” Allen said.

“It wasn’t trouble! I like this sort of thing. I’m Miranda,” she said, and he noticed the slight coffee stains on her otherwise perfect teeth.

He introduced himself, and she shook his hand with a small smile.

“You seem to already know your way around things here,” she added.

“Do I? I have no idea what I’m doing, really.”

She laughed at this, a small tinkling of bells, and covered her mouth with her hand. He noticed the band on her finger.

“Oh, this? Marie proposed to me a month ago. Everyone at the station is invited to the wedding, provided they aren’t working. It’s hard for Marie and I to even find a day we’re both off!”

She glanced over at Marie with so much love in her eyes that Allen almost felt a little left out.

The man was running his fingers across a report, and then nodding as Lenalee talked a mile a minute. He stopped what he was doing and smiled in their direction. Miranda seemed to melt.

“He’s blind,” Allen said aloud. His eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out-”

“Don’t worry, it’s everyone’s reaction,” Miranda replied softly. “He can’t do field work much anymore, but we’d all be lost without him.”

“Must have a lot of dedication to keep working with the Garda after losing his sight,” Nea said.

“Oh, I’ve kept you too long with all my rambling!”

“No, it was nice talking with you.”

“You too.”

She scuttled back into the depths of the station, much like most of the room. Allen wondered up to the wooden table in front of the whiteboard, with a couple neatly stacked envelopes placed on top. The first envelope said “Wisely/Krory”, and he flipped through them until reaching the one with “Lavi/Allen” on the back. 

However, before he opened it, he noticed a stray file with the name “Timothy Hearst”. He opened it and quietly read the profile.  

Timothy had brown eyes.

He forced himself to close the file.

“So the angel we talked to on the bridge with green eyes,” Nea stopped and made a slicing motion over his throat.

Allen tried not to think about it.

He opened the file meant for Lavi and him; it had about ten different leads typed up and printed out inside, with the caller’s ID and location listed. He looked at the stack of folders, and then back to Marie.

“She wasn’t kidding when she said they’d be lost without him,” Nea muttered. “This must’ve taken hours.” 

Allen didn’t know the protocol for checking out tips from the hotline: what to ask, when to ask, or even how to get there. He didn’t even have a phone to call a taxi.

“Damn it, Lavi.” 

“You’re right on the mark with that,” Lenalee said.

He jumped, not realizing she was behind him.

“Let me see if anyone wants to take you with them,” she added, scanning the room.

“Oh, I can handle it,” Allen lied.

“Nonsense, everyone needs a partner!” She said with a reassuring smile.

The sunset haunting the room only illuminated half her face, and he could see the weariness beneath her radiance. 

“Picked last for kickball again, Allen?” Tyki called out, noticing him awkwardly standing with Lenalee.

“We’ll take him, Miss Lena-Lady. Kanda’s been begging for extra work.”

“What was that?”

Tyki coughed. “Superintendent Lee.”

“Sorted! Between the three of you, you should knock these right out. Show Allen the ropes and,” she eyed Kanda entering the room, “no fighting, right?”

  
“Of course not, ma’am,” Tyki said with a grin.

* * *

**A/N: You don't really know the limits of the human spirit until you have to research "limestone in various geographical areas of Ireland". Anyway, I wanted to title this chapter "Please don't google chemical burns" but I was afraid that might lead some of you to do it. Don't. I hope the dialogue wasn't too clunky, I threw in some slang to make it more realistic but if it errs on the side of annoying let me know? Stylistic writing in dialogue either goes over great or is cringe-y and I haven't decided which it is yet, but you probably have. (craic is a huge slang word in Ireland btw, pronounced like crack, means sorta like "great!" or "fun!" and I really wanted to use it, haha).**

**Let me know what you think & thanks for all the nice feedback so far! **

 


	4. Capitalization is Key in Written Language

Tuesday afternoon: the dull, drowsy onset of a full stomach and a monotonous schedule. Tyki, Kanda, and he chased hotline tips until the sun crawled midway through the fog. Lenalee grouped them all for another unsucessful meeting over lunch.

 Allen had sat with Fou to eat, the only redhead in his life bothering to speak with him.

 Lavi was still awol; Allen bought a new phone last night, but hadn’t given him a ring.

 He thumbed over his number but decided against it. Lavi wouldn’t pick up, anyway.

 Kanda fiddled with the scanner until it filled the car with a dull buzzing.

 “We don’t really need the scanner if we’re just picking up tips. The droning gives me a headache,” Tyki drawled from the backseat, face partially hidden by the grating.

 This squad car was older than Lavi’s personal taxi. Allen traced the faded wrinkles in the leather with his glove, seat with cracks like branches on winter trees. Outside was the crest between fall and winter, right before the weather took a nosedive to unbearable chill and slush. Only the out of place trees in the city, like awkward streetlamps, faded in vibrancy; every blade of grass retained the crisp apple green all year. He sometimes felt as if time didn’t pass in this country, with the cobbled, thigh-high stone walls and silent lush fields remaining identical even as seasons passed.

“We need to respond if we’re closest to an accident,” Kanda muttered back, continuing to tune it until subtle voices cut through the buzzing.

“You’re right,” Tyki yawned, “you’re always my voice of reason, partner.”

Kanda jerked the knob on the scanner, causing the feedback to nearly blow out Allen’s eardrum.

An argument ensued soon after between the pair. Allen and Nea signed.

He silently watched the back and forth from the passenger seat, wondering how these two became partners.

“Probably a yin-yang thi-” Nea covered his mouth mid sentence, and then eyed Tyki.

Tyki made no discernible change in his disposition, leaning back in his seat with no seatbelt. His arm rested far over the headrest, leaving Nea to huddle over next to the opposite door.

Allen tuned in.

“You have to admit we are partners, and we do have the highest rates across the board out of any pair. That’s a fact, right?”

“I’m trying to get this fucking scanner to work.”

“It seems like you’re trying to deflect, dear partner.”

“Tyki-”

Allen tuned out.

“Can he hear me?” Nea leaned up to the grating to whisper in Allen’s ear. “It’s eerie. Weird. It’s not fair, actually, this is our thing! Oh, God, have other people been able to see me besides him? Think about it, Allen-”

“Shut up,” Allen muttered under his breath.

Kanda and Tyki looked over at Allen mid-argument.

“I mean,” Allen held his hands up nervously, “let’s just go, right? No point in arguing.”

“Allen’s right,” Tyki said with an odd smile, winking at Allen.

“Bastard, damn secretive bastard,” Nea muttered.

Unlike Nea, Allen found solace in another knowing of his ghost’s existence. Tiny amounts of solace, though, and large chunks of anxiety sitting like a bad meal in his stomach.

“Whatever,” Kanda replied, throwing the car in gear and pulling out of the lot.

Kanda flashed his badge at the last gate to exit, and they emptied on the main road.

“Which way am I headed?” Kanda asked.

Tyki clicked his tongue while tracing a crumpled map. “You want west: make a right here, ah, don’t hit that car, Kanda, pretty please!”

“I’ll never understand why the city doesn’t make two way roads big enough for both pissing ways,” Kanda said, under his breath.

Allen silently agreed. In Ireland, the problem with back roads--and most roads in general--was that they could only fit one car on them. If one truly wanted two cars on a road, they needed to go about 10 kilometers per hour and have one car half in the ditch and half in the road so the other could get by. 

“You drive like a right-” Allen sucked in his breath when he was nearly sent over the dashboard.

Allen thought he knew what road rage was; he assumed his idea of the term was correct. Nea often made rude comments, and taxi drivers told other cars to piss off. It was a simple concept. But this was blistering, liquid iron anger, in the form of machinery hurling 70 kilometers per hour on weak roads.

“Seatbelt,” Nea said quietly.

“You learn to love the thrill of it,” Tyki said, laughing as Allen shook his head violently at this.

The skinny, dead fall trees whizzed past. The road violently and quickly bent at sharp angles. The air conditioner in the car didn’t work; the wind from a cracked window blew his ragged colorless bangs back. So still, safe behind silent glass in wake of the motion outside of the screaming metal. A buzzing behind his eyes much like thrill.

Then a car would come at them head on, arguing for more space on the trapeze roads. A rush of terror flooding excitement.

“My driving is,” Kanda slammed on the brakes and honked, “fine. I just like to get places faster.”

They eventually escaped the back roads, much to Allen’s relief. The four motorway ramps resembled a clover, and they took a frond up to the interstate. Kanda’s driving became much less noticeable on even, wide ground.

They drove for a minute. Five minutes. Ten. It was acres upon acres of the same green and stone. Breathtaking, but boring. Tyki groaned and sprawled out, causing Nea to hiss like a disturbed cat.

Tyki broke the silence and said, “This tips’ way out in the boonies. Outside Rathkeale, you know, where the Irish mafia vacations. Should be fun.”

“Fucking Rovers,” Kanda muttered, then looked over at Allen.

His eyes were a bit unnerving, getting darker and deeper the longer Allen kept his gaze.

“What is it?” Allen asked, blinking.

“You ever done one of these by yourself, bartender? Any field work?”

“Bartender?” Tyki questioned, but Kanda held a hand up to keep him from derailing the conversation.

“Say you have. He’s trying to size you up,” Nea whispered.

“No,” Allen said, getting a little amused at the disappointment growing on Nea’s face, “I was told I’d just be consulting, not field work. And don’t call me ‘bartender’.”

“So you’ve been trained for consulting work, then? And, you work at a bar, so why shouldn’t I?” Kanda knew the answer to his question before he asked.

“I’ve got on the job training; is that up to your standards? Why don’t you just call me my name?”

“Why would I know your name? Does half-pint work better for you?”

“Oh, a quip about my stature. I suffered too many harsh winters in London to grow as monstrously tall as you, sorry,” Allen said, rolling his eyes.

There was a humor beneath the irritation in Kanda’s eyes. “Somehow I knew you were from London with that stick up your ass.” 

“Gentleman-” Tyki tried to interject, but Allen cut him off.

“We pronounce it ‘arse’ in London actually. For example, ‘you’re a giant arse’-”

“Kanda-”

“What?” Kanda yelled, looking back at Tyki pointing at the map. 

“You get off the motorway,” Tyki pointed at an exit ramp blocked by growing double lines, “there.” 

“Oh, shit!”

Kanda swerved. Allen yelped. Tyki held on to the door.

They narrowly escaped losing a headlight to the sidewall, and flew down the exit ramp.

Allen stewed irritably with his face towards the window. The rest of the car ride was silent.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon: grass like crunched up, broken beer bottles reflecting the dew of the late morning fog. The car screeched to the finish line on a narrow back road in front of a muddy and gravel driveway. The path led back, so far back in the fog that Allen could only see diluted shades of green the more he squinted. An iron gate, well maintained but barely fighting off rust, stood ajar and unlocked. It beckoned entry to nowhere but smoky slate.

Thigh-high stone walls, all hand-stacked without mortar, guarded the fields and countryside of Ireland. However, these were crumbling, crooked; the owner didn’t maintain their walls or had lively livestock.

“Rover territory, just great,” Kanda muttered, flipping through the files Marie made for them. “Do we have any more we can knock out here so we can get the fuck out of this town?”

They were outside Rathkeale, a small town infamous for organized crime. There were giant, ritzy mansions next to functional farms, Benz parked by tractors: the epicenter of the Rathkeale Rover’s vacation center.

“The Rovers’ have been quiet since the last bust. I doubt they’ll even notice we’re here,” Tyki replied.

Allen noticed that Kanda seemed to curse more when he was irritable, which was often, but Tyki took up an air of politeness when angry. They were an odd duo, but somehow it worked.

“You’re better off skipping this one, Allen,” Nea whispered.

“Kanda, maybe we should investigate the house before walking up there. If we drive around we might be able to see if it's-”

Kanda cut Allen off. “If it’s what? A Rover hideout with snipers on the roof? There hasn’t been any tension between us and those assholes in years. We’ve kept our investigations tight and clean. They’re not gonna shoot me for answering a tip _they_ left; hell, the mannequin case is the type of thing they would do.”

Kanda put his hand on the car door, but Allen grabbed his shoulder. 

“Don’t walk into something so obviously stupid. They wouldn’t draw any unnecessary attention to Rathkeale like this,” Allen said.

The entrance seemed too posed and stagnant; the air was heavy and his bones felt heavy in his skin. He looked to roll down his window; it was already open. Something was off.

“Then it’s some farmer up there who’s going to tell me to lower taxes. I’ll take this one, Tyki can do the next tip, and you’ll do the one after.” 

Kanda opened the door. Allen didn’t move his hand and gripped the fabric tighter and said, “Something doesn’t seem right about this.”

“I agree,” Nea said.

Tyki stayed silent.

Kanda rolled his eyes and got out of the car, brushing Allen off his arm. Through Allen’s cracked window, he bent down, pushing his hair out of the way, and said, “It’ll be nothing. I’ll have my walkie on, and I’ll tell you when I see the house. That okay, bartender?”

Allen glared, but nodded.

“Your face will freeze like that if you don’t relax,” Kanda added.

His dark hair swung as he walked away, pushing past the iron gate and disappearing into the open farmland and dense fog.

A tense silence.

“It’s not a Rover. I already checked; it’s a kilometer or two up to some guy and his six kids,” Tyki said nonchalantly.

Allen stared blankly at Tyki’s grin.

“Are you taking the piss at me?”

“Not at you, of course not! At Kanda, maybe. I bet another cop I could get him to admit we’re partners by the end of the week. I do most of the fact checking in the partnership. Or, someone does it for me. So this is,” Tyki moved his hands as he searched for the words, “a bit of reverse psychology, if you will.”

Allen sighed and rubbed his brow, fighting the mounting headache. Nea was cracking up in the back seat.

“You were actually worried, weren’t you? Weren’t you? About that guy?” Nea repeated while snorting.

“Theres like, a shit ton of land back there the guy could be at, too. It could take Kanda an hour, searching through fields,” Tyki started to laugh mid-sentence, “getting his perfectly shined shoes covered in horse manure.”

Allen’s mouth loosened, almost slipping a little smile at this--ignoring Nea still cracking up behind him. The thought of Kanda nervously checking behind cows for kilometers on end would probably send Fou into a ugly laughing, half choking, fit over a sandwich tomorrow.

A strange, weak sense of family.

The scanner suddenly went off, tuning in to a stern man’s voice.

_“-ot a big deal, just need some perimeter backup near Adare.”_

Allen attempted to tune the radio, empathizing with Kanda at the state of disrepair the radio was in. A different voice, more grainy and weak.

_“-at happen-ed?”_

A ragged man’s voice, the same channel as the first voice.

_“-Yeah, a murder at the uh, the fuckin’ Mustard Seed at Echo Lodge. ‘ooks like a prostitute, real upscale woman of the night ‘ere. Stab wounds, t’e whole pig n’ half. We jus’ need one or two lads to stand out front while we clear it. Anyone ‘ear?”_

Tyki left the trunk of the car and plopped in the driver’s seat.

He picked up the radio receiver and said, “How far out from Rathkeale are you guys?”

“We can’t just ditch Kanda,” Allen offered.

“Oh, we don’t want to bother him. He’s very busy right now,” Tyki said, and smiled as the car roared to a start.

_“‘Bout 6 kilometers or so. You free, Tyki?”_

“Free as a bird, Toma. I’ve got an extra inspector with me to boot. Be there in five.” Tyki hooked the receiver back and reached for the gearshift.

Tyki was absolutely chaotic, like a glass of smooth whiskey with cocaine around the rim, and he probably was not the best guide of judgement. However, it did feel good to ditch someone who couldn’t bother to learn his name.

Tyki and Allen did terrible impressions of Kanda cursing and scoffing while mansions flew past.

* * *

Late Tuesday afternoon: cream paint nestled in golden and fiery fall trees, with leaves like rust on a copper pipe. Trees were hard to come by in the settled parts of the country; it was mostly crisp, rolling farmland and miles of jade and stone. However, the hairpin town of Adare had a fair amount of trees, giving it a warm autumn glow. Unlike the foggy, flat Rathkeale.

“Why would you fancy a woman of the night at a bed and breakfast?” Allen murmured, noting that the paint on the outside of the sprawling manor looked like soggy cereal rather than mustard.

“Hey now, this isn’t our case. We just have to stand outside and look pretty,” Tyki said, getting out of the car.

Allen followed in suit, locking the door behind him.

“You want a smoke?” Tyki offered one from his pack, and Allen considered it.

“Oh please don’t Allen, it makes me feel faint,” Nea whined, putting a hand to his forehead. “I’m already running a fever at the thought of it.”

He smoked when he was nervous, but it was less of a habit and more of a coping mechanism. When Nea overwhelmed his thoughts, a cigarette often faded the noise. Nea hated the smell.

He wanted to ask Tyki what he knew about Nea, and for that, Nea had to disappear.

“Sure,” Allen said, drawing one from the pack.

“Don’t you dare, Walker,” Nea said angrily.

Tyki handed Allen his lighter which was seemly custom made. It was a flip-top zippo lighter, all steel, with a strange pattern of two crossed keys. A design around the keys was branded in black on the steel. He curiously handed it back, but didn’t ask.

The clove cigarette coated his chapped lips in cherry and tar. A silence fell over them, with smoke billowing with the dead leaves.

Nea was gone.

Allen felt a nervous energy brewing in the silence.

“Tyki-”

“Yeah, I can see your ghost,” Tyki said in an exhale of smoke.

Tyki smirked to blend in where Allen went a few shades paler.

“Well, I can’t _see him_ , see him. I can see,” Tyki pursed his lips, “a dark shadow, almost, like shades of indigo and violet coming off your person. It’s not strong right now--the smoke, right? It’s like burning incense in a haunted house, especially the clove.”

“I-” Allen faltered for words.

“Thank you.”

Tyki looked a little taken aback, but hid it well. “I don’t know much about them, to be honest. But yours’ is a nasty one, huh?” 

“He’s not that bad,” Allen said with a laugh, and this time Tyki couldn’t hide his surprise.

“You listen to him? The whispers, what he says?” Tyki asked quickly.

Allen sucked on the cigarette while trying to disassemble the worry in Tyki’s voice. When he couldn’t, he replied with a simple, “Yes.”

Tyki mimicked Allen, turning to his cigarette for the next conversational cue. He looked up at the trees and blew smoke out with his words.

“A Tais is an old ghost, trapped on earth because of some connection: either affection, anger against the living, or unfulfilled duty. Anita, ah,” he seemed to want to eat the name out of the air, “well, _sources_ tell me they come from people that mourn themselves to death or die suddenly. They feed on attention and play tricks; they can’t be trusted,” Tyki said, staring directly at Allen.

His eyes held worry hidden beneath loose curls, dark and airy like an unlit moon.

Allen hadn’t considered Nea to be untrustworthy; he’d always been helpful. They weren’t out robbing graves together to practice witchcraft.

Allen drew on his cigarette with worry. “Are they always-” 

“Always,” Tyki repeated.

“Well how do I get rid of,” Allen swallowed the name much better than Tyki, “it?”

He couldn’t even imagine Nea’s outrage at being called an “it”. He didn’t know why that mattered to him. 

“I don’t know,” Tyki replied with a shrug.

A long pause. Cigarette burning to the filter. The wind coming to a halt. Trees above, crowding the sterile afternoon sky.  Fall abruptly becoming winter.

“Here.” Tyki fumbled with his wallet, searching for something. A ragged business card finally emerged, and he offered it between two fingers to Allen.

“Anita’s tobacco shoppe?” Allen read slowly, before looking back at Tyki in confusion.

“You can’t openly do anything that resembles witchcraft in Ireland, unfortunately. Just tell them I sent you. She can answer more of your questions than me,” Tyki said, putting the butt of his cigarette out on his shoe.

“There is one thing I have noticed, though,” Tyki murmured, curiously watching Allen.

Allen noticed his cigarette was out, and ash had spilled onto his glove; he wondered if Tyki could see shadows creeping up his back. 

“The closer you get to someone, the more you can see their ghost. An-,” he sighed but continued, “ _someone_ I know with a situation like yours; I’m very close to her. I can see her ghost, hear it; it's like there’s no difference between the ghost and another human. But it’s never looked as dark as yours’ seems to.”

He added, “You don’t get close to people, do you?”

Allen opened his mouth to protest that he had exactly one friend, but noticed a peculiar rustling out of the corner of his vision. A forlorn man was blowing his way past Tyki and Allen’s lax perimeter watch, shouting something lost in the crunching of dead leaves. 

“Shit!” Allen jogged across the lawn over to the man, who wasn’t covering much ground in his emotional state.

He collapsed in the leaves with a disgruntled suit on and bloodshot eyes. 

Allen noticed the despair in his eyes shooting straight past him, into the hotel, into the room, the bed, the girl, the wounds, the blood.

“Sir, this area is-”

“She wasn’t a fucking prostitute!” He screamed, on his knees in the fallen rubble of the lawn.

“Sir, please try to calm down,” Allen said weakly.

He didn’t know how to do this; he hurriedly looked around for Nea’s smoky appearance. Maybe he was too angry to help. Allen felt the misplaced urge to apologize to thin air.

“Yeah? Fuck you!” The man yelled. “Fuck,”

“I’m sorry,” Allen said quietly.

“For your loss,” Nea finished, words leaving Allen’s lips.

“Tell him he police are doing everything they can to preserve her image,” Nea whispered, squatting to look at the man.

Allen noticed the lack of emotion in Nea’s eyes when looking into complete desolation. Nea glanced up at Allen and smiled softly.

“Warn me before you smoke next time, right?” 

Allen nodded his head slightly. 

“I’m very sorry for your loss. We’re doing everything we can to preserve her image, and there isn’t an official report of what happened yet,” Allen said, offering a hand to the man.

He pushed Allen’s hand away. Tyki sauntered over.

“You might be?” Tyki asked, looking over the ginger man, who drank a bit too much beer over the years for the suit he was squashed in. 

“Her brother,” he said, trying to fix his clothes and brush off the leaves.

“She wasn’t a whore,” he repeated, emphasizing the “w” sound. “She wouldn’t be fucking some nobody in this shithole. She works at Trinity College, in Dublin. Yeah. She wasn’t a f-”

“The police are looking into it,” Tyki said with a mock sweetness that gave Allen a dull toothache.

The brother eyed Allen and spewed misguided venom. “You look like you should be in there inspecting, not guarding the fucking lawn, half-pint. I could knock you over and take a look myself.”

Tyki opened his mouth, but Allen replied first with Nea at his heels. He leaned in to the man’s face, eyes manic with nicotine and irritability and something dark; misty locks so close the man could smell the lavender shampoo.

“You’re the second man to call me half-pint today, and I’m enjoying it even less this time ‘round. If you lay a single hand on me, I will knock you flat on your arse and you can mourn your sister’s death from a jail cell for assaulting an officer. Sound proper, yeah?”

The man’s round face scrunched up to a perfect circle and he muttered, “I fucking hate you cops. Just take a look for me, for bloody’ sake. If she’s wearing the corset and heels, then I have my answer. I won’t give a statement unless you look--you need that shit, right?”

Allen looked over at Tyki, who nodded with a shrug. His eyes held an unrecognizable emotion.

“They might need a hand in there,” Tyki said slowly.

“I’ll be back in five minutes. Stay here and make sure he doesn’t run in, Tyki,” Allen muttered, turning on his heel.

“Yes, sir!” Tyki said, bringing his hand to attention on his forehead.

* * *

 The inn was even more luxurious than Allen realized; the front was covered in various colors of flowers and herbs; a sweet and soft scent filled the gravel path leading into the yellow cream building. He looked for the chain of custody log, or even tape, but it seemed they were deeper in the inn. 

He slid the glass doors ajar and stepped in, wiping the dirt off his shoes on the welcome mat before continuing.

The entrance rooms were painted a deep maroon, which matched the dark, polished wood of the furniture inside. Everything was stagnant, quiet, except for the faint sounds of camera flashes down the long hall of guest rooms. It was sparsely decorated, meant to hold an air of class compared to the cluttered knickknacks you’d usually find at a place like this. He stopped by the entrance desk and noticed a wooden board, meant to hold the room keys, mounted on the wall.

It was missing a couple rooms; he wondered how many guests had been spending the night when this happened. The kitchen was offset through glass doors; inside, an officer was talking to an older woman. Her makeup was smeared; she blew her nose into a rag.

The guest log was in a bag labeled “Evidence”. Two people had already signed custody on the log attached. He moved on down the hall.

A bell rang in between the camera flashes. A shadow swiftly ran between his feet, with a tawny cat stopping at the end of the hall. It gave him a long look, then began to give the orange fur a good bath.

He suddenly felt a terrible guilt wash over him for speaking so brashly to the man outside. 

“I should probably apologize,” he mumbled absentmindedly.

“You didn’t get to mourn that angel on the bridge, so you took it out on some else mourning,” Nea said, walking over to pet the cat. It sauntered away.

“It’s just a part of being human. Just apologize in that Allen way that you do. You’ll feel better.”

_Can I trust Nea?_  

_Is he the reason I got so angry?_

_Maybe it’s just my temper._

Sometimes he didn’t wholly feel like himself; sometimes Nea and he overlapped.

He tried not to think about it.

Room Number 8 had yellow tape barring the entrance and the door was slightly cracked.

“Coming in, you want me to sign anything?” Allen yelled, weaving through the tape and pushing on the door a little.

A man yanked the door open and replied, “We’re up the crick ‘out a paddle on this’n. You the Limerick lad with Tyki we ‘alled in?”

Allen blinked as he deciphered the accent. “Yes, we were checking a tip in Rathkeale. Tyki’s keeping the perimeter outside.”

He remembered Kanda.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty on that account,” Nea said with a smirk.

“Sign ‘ere,” he said, holding out a clipboard.

The walls possessed the same red as the entrance rooms, the same red all over the body.

He quickly signed, and then stretched latex gloves over his own cloth ones.

“We’ve got the body over on the bed, as you can see,” the man said, “the assailant stabbed her, but I don’t know how many times or with what. Our blood spatter tech decided not to pick up the phone, and the one day we need him. We may need to pull Krory; he did a little blood spatter work before switching to field work, right? Is he mobilized for the Entomber case, too?” 

He spoke with an air of properness but there wasn’t an ease to it; he seemed a little too forced, almost robotic in his actions. He even braided his light hair a little too harshly. Although, the man had a bit of a rounder face, and the stern hair made him seem older. Allen wouldn’t be surprised if he was his own age. Maybe he was just from London.

“I just started with the Limerick division, so I’m not familiar with everyone yet,” Allen said nervously. “I’m Allen.”

“Excuse my manners. I’m Link. Emergency response. I don’t work with this division, but I was in the area for something unrelated.”

“Toma. ‘ust a guarda who works ‘round here,” the man said, holding out his broad hand.

Allen shook it, thinking about how strange introductions were at a crime scene. The other two didn’t seem to notice.

Technically, all he needed to do was look at the body and leave. The corset, completely black lace, spared no ounce of modesty. The dark heels were decadent and much too high to walk in. 

“The heels,” Nea murmured. “You’re onto something.”

 “Do you mind if I take a closer look, Link, was it?” Allen asked.

The man moved with a fluidity Allen recognized as dangerous; guarda received physical training before field work, but this was much deeper. His movements were cold, calculated and quick, as if he measured the exact angles to bend. 

“Why do all the emergency officers look like they could skin you with their pinky?” Nea muttered.

“Of course.”

Allen put a knee on the bed to get a closer look. The corset fabric was very expensive, and that wasn’t just an assumption.

“The tags are still on the corset,” Nea said with curiosity.

Allen gently reached beneath the girl’s armpit and pulled out the tiny, paper tags. On a piece of cardstock the size of his fingertip: _three hundred pounds, Fantasy Garden Boutique, S._ He wasn’t feeling up for checking if the tags were still on the bottoms. 

“She wasn’t working in the sex industry, but someone dressed her up as if she did before they killed her,” Allen said, and then remembered this wasn’t his case.

Link leaned in with interest, blonde hair almost dripping on him. He blinked. “I didn’t see that. Any store selling lace for that much has cameras. Thanks, Allen, we probably wouldn’t have seen that until someone scanned evidence.”

Link’s face pinched up, and Allen pretended not to notice. However, the man looked disappointed that Allen had seen the tags, and not himself.

“It’s no problem,” Allen said, trailing off. “The brother is outside; someone working the case should probably get a statement.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Link said, although he began inspecting the tag again and retrieved a jar of black powder for fingerprinting.

“Only a perfectionist has their bangs perfectly symmetrical,” Nea whispered as they exited. “Did you see him look at your hair? You should really cut it. Not a stick up the arse bowl cut, though, like that.”

Allen sighed as Nea began to ramble, signed the time he left on the clipboard, and walked back into the crimson halls. The cat’s bell chimed quickly, and it laced itself between his footsteps.

“She seems to like you,” Nea said.

The cat ran ahead, to the exit of the inn, and the soft scent of flowers returned. Nea walked ahead of him, reaching down to stroke the cat's fur. The animal recoiled with a screech and ran out the door.

* * *

 Tyki nearly ran into the glass door, pouncing on Allen as he opened it.

“We’ve got to go, now,” Tyki said, yanking Allen by jacket and dragging him into the garden.

“Bloody-,” he nearly tripped over lilacs, “what is it, Tyki?”

“Tell you in the car. Hurry along now,” he responded, smashing fallen leaves with heavy footsteps.

“Give me a brief synopsis, at least,” he said, looking over at the man waiting near their car.

“Kanda is just impatient, that’s all, and I didn't have my walkie on me. 'Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” Tyki replied.

“Did something happen?”

Tyki chewed on this. “Yes, I suppose so.”

They made it to the car, and Tyki didn’t even look at the man’s expectant eyes.

“She’s not a prostitute,” Allen said quickly as he opened his car door. “But someone dressed her up like one. Good eve.”

The man looked on with confusion. “She what? Where are you going? Wait-”

Tyki reached over and slammed Allen’s door, throwing up gravel and a cloud of dirt as he reversed.

* * *

“Was he shot?” Allen asked quickly as Tyki climbed up the speedometer.

They left sweet and colorful Adare; the sun began to descend into grey, heavy clouds. The grass shifted to a bleak green, the color of a faded olive sweater, and the stone walls jutted from the land as they swam past the window. The fog dissolved, but the air was thick and swallows seemed stuck like peanut butter coating the inside of his mouth.

“No.”

“Captured? Killed? Held for ransom?”

“No,” Tyki repeated, lighting a cigarette in the car.

Allen rolled his window down as the inside of the car filled with smoke. He noticed the walkie turned off in the cupholder, and reached for it.

“You don’t want to turn that on right now. Kanda’s quite unhappy,” Tyki muttered.

Allen did anyway.

_“-is it. I swear to God and any Goddamn holy spirits listening, even his fucking son, that I am done working with you Tyki Mikk. If you don’t get here in-”_

“Kanda? Kanda, what’s going on?” Allen asked worriedly. “Are you injured?” 

_“Am I-,”_ Kanda scoffed, loudly so it would pick up on the reciever, _“No I’m not hurt. I’m fucking pissed. You two asshats-”_

“Someone on the scanner needed backup,” Allen said while pursing his lips.

_“Then fucking tell me before you ditch me in a field! Oh but, of course you wouldn’t know that, bartender, because you don’t know any of the protocol-”_

“If someone doesn’t tell me what’s wrong in the next pissing moment,” Allen muttered, rubbing his brow.

_“This guy and his kids--oh and thanks, Tyki, for sending me in thinking it was a Rover--”_

“Get to the point,” Allen said, “You can yell at him later.” 

_“I can yell at him any time I want to. I want to yell at him now, later, at four in the morning--”_

“Turn that off, please, it’s turning me into quite the distracted driver. Kanda found blood all over a shed with the words ‘Why don’t I see him?’ painted on the ceiling. No dad, lights on in the house,” Tyki said, flipping the switch on the walkie. “He can’t clear the house without backup. He’s stupid enough to go in alone if we don’t get there.”

“When was the tip called in?” Allen asked quietly.

The car felt too silent without Kanda yelling. They were passing mansions at a dizzying speed in a flash of light and sound.

“Two days ago, the night we found the angels,” Tyki replied with a sigh. “Single dad who kept the kids and the land probably has an angry spouse. It’s always the spouse. I’m thinking it’s the dad’s blood; the kids are probably fine with the mom. Especially if she called in a tip to make us come look at the property; she feels guilty and can’t admit to it.” 

“‘Why can’t I see him?’ is an odd message to leave, though,” Allen said, knowing Tyki was placating him. 

“Probably based off an argument they had about custody. Might even say 'them' because Kanda isn't the sharpest tack in the box when he's worked up. Although a little sadistic to write out in blood,” Tyki said. “I just don’t want Kanda in the house, alone, with six kids to cover.”

* * *

Early Tuesday evening: a grey and yellow sky like an overdone hardboiled egg yolk, the fight beginning between night and day.

They hopped out of the car and slid past the gate.

A neighbor called out to them. “Somethin’ ‘appen at the McKinley’s? Saw your car parked earlier-”

“Let you know as soon as we find out,” Tyki called over his shoulder.

Allen turned on the walkie. Silence. They fell to a brisk walk.

“Kanda? We’re walking up,” Allen said.

“Someone should be handling perimeter by now. Lenalee stretched the officers too thin,” Tyki muttered, falling to a brisk walk. He reached for his cigarettes, but found the pack empty.

_“Did you stop for coffee on the way because it took you-”_

Tyki held his hand out for the walkie, and Allen handed it over.

“Where are you? I called in a code, but no one’s got perimeter yet,” Tyki said.

They were far down the driveway now. Hushed grass and onwatching, wary livestock encircled the pair; they were the only ones disturbing the peace of the land.

_“Near the shed. It’s a ways up from the house. I knocked on the door of the house when I first arrived, but no one answered,”_ Kanda replied quietly, anger still apparent but put on hold.

“We’re coming up on it now. I think the spouse should go easily, no need to turn this into a circus,” Tyki said as the rickety shed came into view.

The shed was a mess of piecewise wooden planks and tin; it looked old and weathered and rotten. The house stood farther back on the driveway, but the lights cut up the oncoming darkness of evening. 

Kanda paced the same space of flattened grass with the walkie gripped in white knuckles.

“How nice of you to show up,” Kanda yelled when he noticed them walking up. “You two feel like bloody doing your jobs now?”

Allen put a leg over the stone wall labeling the left side of the driveway--he was too short to hop over--and carefully exited.

“I’m so sorry someone was murdered while you needed attention, Kanda. Can we take a look inside first?” Tyki said, waltzing over to the shed.

Allen wanted to apologize, but knew it would roll off Kanda’s ears and down the driveway until it snowballed into an argument.

“Yeah, I’m sure you can handle another write-up without a suspension. Lenalee will be thrilled to hear about how she stressed us staying together, and yet you two found somewhere better to be,” Kanda replied.

“Ouch, there’s no need for nastiness,” Tyki replied as he opened the door.

The smell of blood nearly blew Allen over. It reeked, and didn’t smell entirely human; however, it was familiar.

Tyki peeked in, not wanting to disrupt the scene any more than he needed to. The wood of the floor was stained red, and apparent drag marks were at the entrance. They were short marks, and Allen’s stomach knotted up; a large farmer wasn’t dragged here.

“The smell gave me probable cause to open it up. Says’ ‘why don’t I see him’ on the ceiling,” Kanda said.

“Judge might debate that smell as normal on a farm," Allen said without thinking, and Kanda glared. 

Well, I’ll be, you can read correctly, Kanda,” Tyki replied as he glanced at the ceiling.

He walked away from the entrance and said, “Drag marks don’t look like the farmer’s, although-”

Tyki took another peek at the ceiling before turning to his phone. 

“What is it?” Kanda muttered.

“Comparison,” he said vaguely.

Allen ignored the pair outside and went to take a look at the guts of the shed for himself. He wanted to recoil at the smell; how Tyki stood unwavering in the face of this much blood was beside him. It was sprayed on the walls, even the scattered tools and bags of manure.

“Smells like pig’s blood,” Nea commented as he walked inside. “Drag marks look like a smaller animal than a human, too.”

The bottoms of Nea's boots soon turned maroon. He turned his gaze upward and suddenly looked a little more sober.

Allen looked, too. The letters were thick and sloppy and dripping off the tin still; it was recent.

A drop landed on his cheek and trailed down like scar tissue. Nea wiped it off and curiously looked at the muddy color on his glove.

Something about this seemed too familiar, too strange to be an angry spouse. He entered the doorway a little further and squinted.

“The ‘him’,” he said to Nea, “does it look capitalized to you? A particular kid, maybe?”

Nea glanced up, then back at Allen. He seemed to be worried, not for himself, but at Allen’s reaction to his oncoming words. A drop of blood fell onto his shoulder.

“It’s the same handwriting, Allen. You’ve let these two idiots cloud your thoughts. He drew a line through the 'o', the same way he did in-”

“The same way he wrote John,” Allen gasped, and suddenly felt an urge to vomit.

“Why don’t I see Him?, indeed,” Nea muttered.

“No, he has six kids. We’re reading too much into this,” Allen said with nervous laughter.

“Allen-” Nea started, but Allen left the shed.

“What are you laughing at?” Kanda asked, sauntering over.

"You're wrong," Allen said shakily.

Kanda reached for Allen's shoulder. "Hey, I'm talking to you."

Allen's laughter nearly shook Kanda. “He has six kids! The blood is fresh, he was just here, we could’ve stopped this, he has-”

“What is your problem?” Kanda yelled, letting him stalk off.

“Oh I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this. He draws a line through the ‘o’ the same stylistic way,” Tyki murmured through pursed lips. “It's pig's blood, too, like the shirt. Shit, we missed him by a second.” 

Allen stumbled away from the two as his laughter faded into bitter tears.

“What the fuck is going on?” Kanda said, then glanced at Tyki’s phone screen cutting through the evening dusk.

“Is that the Entomber’s bible verse?”

“Look at the handwriting,” Tyki said, showing him the screen.

A pause as he squinted, before cursing and pulling out his phone.

“Oh, fuck me,” Kanda said with the phone up to his ear.

“Yeah, Lenalee? Search every boat headed over to those islands immediately, we’ve got…”

Kanda’s voice faded as Allen distanced himself. Nea appeared as a vision of smoke before fully forming, soft and tanned skin handing him a handkerchief. 

“We’ll get him,” Nea said softly. “It’s not your fault.” 

“But it is,” Allen said in a weak voice, sniffling. “I knew something was wrong when we got here.”

“You can’t just notice a few stones loose in the driveway and immediately call for backup,” Nea murmured, leaning on the stone wall Allen was perched on.

Nea was right, like he always was, but Allen was going to let himself have a good, ugly cry. He let his face fall into his hands and let out a frustrated noise.

“It’s that Tyki who messed up, not you. I don’t like him; he’s like that uncle who always gets too drunk at the Christmas party. God, remember that one bitter winter when you were twelve and with the, what’s their bloody name, the Taylor family? And their uncle drank so much wine he went out in the snow completely naked? That was absolutely scarring.” 

Allen laughed a little between sniffles, and Nea smiled while watching him.

“You don’t need to make nice with these assholes, right? You have Lavi.” Nea tucked Allen’s tangled locks behind his ears.

“And you’ll always,” Nea wiped away a stray tear and looked at the wet fabric of his glove for a moment.

He looked up at Allen with bright, sunset eyes full of an emotion Allen couldn’t quite figure out. Much more depth than just happiness, much more darkness than love. 

“You’ll always, always have me.”

And Allen would lie awake that night, wondering how Nea knew of something that happened when he was twelve.

But in this moment, he felt safe, happy, relieved. He felt loved.

* * *

**Thanks, see you next ch! xx**


	5. You'll Go Mad if You Don't Sleep Regularly

1:38 A.M.

The T.V. blared after a quiet commercial hump. “Shock. Outrage. A scandal brews as the police department scrambles to explain the horrifying murders…”

He lowered the volume with a few sad clicks of his remote. Nea had fallen asleep hours ago; he was slightly snoring and pressed into Allen’s shoulder.

“...Worse than the Grangegorman killings. Worse than anything in Ireland’s history…”

Allen pushed up his reading glasses--his eyes had never been the same after the fire--and skimmed the report. He’d leafed through this file a dozen times before, another five times just this evening and absorbed nothing. His mind was elsewhere.

Flashes of the bloodied shack. A warm, plump pillow wedged behind his back. Six more angels propped up for display somewhere in the city. Nea’s cold, hollow breath on his exposed, warped skin. Charred skin and peeling cement and the dim bedroom lamp and a cold cup of tea. Six more children.

“And the police have no leads, no suspects, and no clue how to protect our children…”

He turned off the T.V, and the folder collapsed in his lap like dead leaves. He attempted to roll his knotted shoulders; Nea complained incoherently in his sleep.

 _Perhaps we are too close,_ Allen thought.

If Tyki had to spend every waking moment with someone, maybe he’d understand why Allen didn’t ignore Nea. Surely there were exceptions to Tyki’s rule, and Nea had never asked much of anything from him. Ghosts couldn’t be an exact science.

The more Allen thought about it, he couldn’t fathom what Nea got out of hanging around him.

He reached into his pocket and twiddled with the business card Tyki gave him. The cardstock burned a hole in his pocket all day; he couldn’t decide Nea’s opinion on the idea. He left the card alone and glanced back at the swimming words in the file.

“You’ve thumbed through that case overview so much you’ve worn holes in the pages. Go to bed,” Nea grumbled, yawning into Allen’s sleeve.

“I didn’t know you were up, especially with all that snoring.” Allen’s words degraded to yawn, too. “Since when do ghosts snore?”

“Like you don’t.” Nea gave him a sleepy glare. “If you really wanted to crack this thing tonight, you’d need everything down at the station. A few stolen files doesn’t make for a Sherlock Holmes. And Watson needs sleep.”

Allen blinked and sat up. Everything was probably neatly laid out down there; everything he was missing. 

“You’re right.”

Nea landed on Allen’s pillow without a sound and asked, “What? You’re Sherlock Holmes?”

Nea realized the weight of his half-asleep words. “No! It’s two in the bloody morning!” 

“He could be putting those kids in cement right now, Nea.”

“Do you know how cranky you get without your beauty sleep? Do you know how cranky I get?”

“I’m just going to lie awake and think about it, anyway.”

Nea put his face in a pillow and pulled up the covers. A muffled, “Then do that. At least you won’t snore.” 

“Nea, we only have a small window to catch this person before--”

The other melodramatically sighed and heaved the thermal covers off.

“Fine. No, fine, fine, this is a fantastic, splendid idea. Just grand. I’ll get my coat. But I promise I’ll be no help, and you’ll be a mess without your beauty sleep.”

Allen dressed in a foggy but energized mental state. Forgetting a sock or two, he was soon on his way. Nea had to lock the door on the way out, for the combination of sleepiness and bitter, evening cold left his slender hands useless.

Smooth and inky night air dislodged his lethargy. The sky was an empty swirl of stars; it was the moon’s night off. There were a good few miles between the station and him, but the lack of rain and fog somehow made it pleasurable to walk. Some of the streets were scarcely lit; others had grand, flickering streetlamps.

Most taxi’s didn’t run this late, and the questionable few that did would charge more than his rent. Walking at night always dusted his thoughts off like the fragile china they were lately; Nea seemed calmer and quieter after a mile or two.

He felt safe walking with Nea growling and grumbling behind him. He didn’t know if he should. Once again, the business card began burning in his pocket.

* * *

2:13 A.M.

The station seemed abandoned, post-apocalyptic; nearly every light inside was flipped, but every office was empty. The car park out back, because Allen approached from the rear, was sparsely dotted with a handful of cars. He wondered if he could even get in.

The front doors slid open with little resistance, and Fou’s blunted but cheery smile greeted him from behind the front desk. The light of her computer illuminated all the shadows in her complexion; it looked as if she’d rubbed coffee grounds beneath her eyes.

“Good morn’.” Fighting the instinctual call of a giant yawn, she held a limp hand out. “Let me eye your laminate. Gotta make sure you aren’t a ghost, bein’ here this late.”

Fou didn’t even even bother tying her long locks back. Her persimmon hair stroked the keyboard as she nodded off while Allen fished through his jacket pockets. Then his back pockets. Nea pulled on a string around his neck, lifting the badge up.

“Oh, around my neck,” Allen said with a nervous titter.

He handed the makeshift badge over. Fou gave him a strange look, then shook her head.

“‘Seein’ things, ‘on’t mind me. I always have the night shift,” she finally succumbed to the yawn, “and the day shift. And the afternoon shift. You’re good--the ‘tomber papers are either in Lenalee’s office or Room 500. ‘Where we have are group t’inks.”

“Thanks,” Allen said.

“Happy to help. File some of Lavi’s papers while ‘yer at it!” Fou called after him.

Allen passed through the metal detector with no hitches and headed into the labyrinth.

The lone, constant hum of canary electricity outlined every crevice and cranny. Two shadows, caressing the deserted halls, traced every hollow with an obscure touch. He rounded the third office down the hall, accordion shades drawn like the rest. _Getting close now, don’t get lost_. The fourth coat of eggshell paint slapped on the brick to hide blood and piss stains past interrogation rooms. Room 500, on the left, cluttered with photos of dead angels.

“The light’s on,” Nea said.

He peered in the space, then looked back at Allen like sour milk.

“Nevermind, I’ve decided. Let’s go home.”

“Why? Who is it?” Allen asked, almost afraid to look.

He felt a little nervous wondering if Lavi had returned and cracked the case. A sudden, strange thought bubbled over: _what did he do after they caught, or didn’t catch, the Entomber?_

He had a makeshift badge and not even a uniform. On any official record, he was just doing some consulting work for an emergency Guarda.

 _Would my failure on this case mean I get the boot? Or will I follow absent Lavi to another station,_ he wondered quietly, _or could I possibly stay here?_

A somewhat disturbing chain of thoughts: rooting in one place, taking a day job, having a patchwork family of friends.

_Where does Nea fit in?_

“Take one guess as to who's walking towards the door.”

Nea put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes at Allen. He took an exaggerated hand and flipped an imaginary wave of hair back. Nea pursed his lips like citrus to speak.

“Oh, it’s you Bartender. What are you doing here so late?”

Nea and Kanda said it in unison; Allen couldn’t help but be amused. He made a mismatched face somewhere between a disdainful sneer and crooked laughter.

“Came to look over some things,” Allen said absently to Kanda, paying more attention to Nea. 

Kanda waved a hand in front of Allen’s eyes. “You seem pretty out of it. Go home.”

“You can’t stop me from being here, Kanda.”

Frustration, like a slowly boiling kettle. Looking back at Kanda, he didn’t see the same irritation. His face had charcoal smeared in all the hollows and ashen indifference filling in the gaps of his complexion. Kanda hunched over the door frame with loose strands of murky and somber fiberglass strands tumbling down his shoulders.

“You’re going to be hell to work with tomorrow if you don’t sleep,” Kanda mumbled, retreating into the room. "Maybe more annoying than you already are." 

“Speak for yourself,” Allen sniffed.

The fishnet windows canvassed an empty black that rivaled Kanda’s eyes this evening. Kanda perched with perfect posture on a stray, worn couch. He reached for a hair tie around his wrist, and knotted the strands so tight Allen worried for a migraine. There was something undeniably heartbreaking, breathtaking, about him, much to Allen’s dismay.

Allen realized that out of everyone that was working this case, Kanda was here at two in the morning. He wondered if this was routine for the other rather than a sleepless whim.

“Don’t empathize with him. Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s written all over your face. He probably just wants to solve this and steal Lee’s job. We can take Lavi’s office. Just grab,” Nea rubbed his chin while looking over a cluttered table, “that recent pile over there to start.”

Piles upon piles of folders littered three fold-out tables in the center of the sparse room. The worn laminate of the tabletops wasn’t even visible beneath; he was sure the room hadn’t been a natural disaster earlier today.

“Looks like Lavi’s office in here,” Allen muttered as he picked through the files.

Kanda snorted. Allen barely registered the response, assuming it was Nea.

“That wasn’t me,” Nea glanced up from behind a manilla folder. “You have to pay me more to laugh at your jokes.”

Allen carefully looked over his shoulder. Kanda was lost in thought with his nose in paperwork, almost purposefully.

 _Fine,_ Allen huffed.

He grabbed an armful of folders, giving Nea a stern look when Nea reached to pick up more.

“Right, floating papers isn’t conducive to proving you aren’t a crazy witch,” Nea continued with a playful whine, “but you’re arms are so scrawny. It’ll take us years to get everything we need.”

Allen bit back a response and headed for the door with a stack of files nearly blocking his view.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Allen didn’t turn around but answered, “Lavi’s office. I need to be alone to think.”

_Or talk with a ghost._

“What if I need a report you have?” Kanda asked, putting down his file.

“Then you can come get it when I'm done. You do know where Lavi's office is, right? Or do you need a map?” Allen’s voice slow dripped like condescending black coffee.

He readjusted all the papers in his arms and watched Kanda’s face warp into an irritable mess of wrinkles.

“And you’re not going to lose a single piece of evidence in that rat’s nest? ‘Not going to lose something that could be our next lead? Right,” Allen’s pretend smile twitched as Kanda spoke, “Any relevant evidence stays here. And you sign the custody chain on anything you read that’s bagged.”

“He’s,” Nea seemed to be having indigestion, “he’s probably right about Lavi’s office.” 

Allen chewed on the inside of his mouth and considered making a run for it. Kanda and he were in a deadlock of sharpened glares.

“I mean it.”

Allen caved. “Fine, but don’t talk to me. Or breathe so loud, Christ, it’s like you smoked since the womb.”

Kanda exhaled in a melodramatic display and sprawled out on the couch, not deigning to reply to Allen.

Allen glanced around the room for space and decided the floor would only do. He pushed the tables of files toward the wall in a grinding screech of harsh metal on stained wood.

“You’re serious?!” Kanda yelled over the sound of metal scraping and dragging against the floor. 

“I need room to work. You understand, right? Since I’m your prisoner if I want any evidence.” Allen smiled angelically at Kanda as he bumped the final table against the wall with his thigh, metal legs resounding with a satisfying banshee shriek.   

“Spoiled London brat, probably never had to share his toys,” Kanda muttered while glaring.

Allen exhaled steam like a hydrothermal vent and nearly burned the files in his burning fingertips.

“Don’t worry about him; he’s got the manners of a farmhand. You know, I’d put money on him growing up on a farm. Get out your notebook so we can write, or else we’ll never figure this out,” Nea said, and gingerly patted his shoulder. 

He could only roll his eyes to avoid lashing out at Kanda. Allen patted himself down until he found the square shape in his trench pocket. The worn leather cover felt cool and cracked through his glove. He thumbed for an empty page, flipping through a substantial amount of one-sided conversations. Nea would talk, and Allen would pen a response, although he wasn’t fond of writing. Everything was misspelled, messy, and some letters would end up backwards or sideways.

He settled down on the floor and eyed the stack of files.

“Okay,” Nea reached for a particular file, but stopped himself before lifting it. “That one, right there. I think it has the lab result of the other scraps of paper at the bridge.”

He sent Nea a shocked look, and wrote, _“WHY DIDNT TH3Y TEL ME TH3SE ARW IN?”_

By Nea’s expression, Allen assumed he’d written an incoherent mess, even though it looked correct to him. Only one pair of parents in his long string of foster care had actually noticed; some doctor on the east side of London had given it a name. He’d refused help on the matter and eventually dropped out of school. Stubbornness and the the Smith’s didn’t mix, however, and those parents dropped him soon after.

“We’re going to have to keep working on that ‘e’, aren’t we,” Nea squinted for a moment and pulled the notebook closer, “I don’t know why they didn’t tell you. Maybe it’s nothing.”

Allen flipped open the file. Inside were photocopies of each of the four notes and possible reconstructions of the ink. He pulled out the overview of the report-the last page in the file. 

 _“Based on the amount of pen pressure on thick cardstock pieces around 3’ by 3’ each, partial reconstruction was possible….no prints recovered on four notes except partial print belonging to T. Mikk…...Note:  “X” placeholder for no inferential/reconstruction due to water damage…...i.) John 3:3, reconstruction possible because note retrieved by A. Walker before water damage… King James Version Translation: Jesus answered and said unto him, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God… ii.) Possible “Numbers 2X:2”,….iii.) “IsaX-35:X” visible, note “Isaiah” closest match in King James Version… iv.) total reconstruction; “Luke 24:31”.... 21st Century King James Version Translation: “And their eyes were opened and they knew Him. And He vanished out of their sight. v.) Overview… .....PROCESSED BY: WISELY KAMELOT 11:02:21 10/26/16....”_  

The wall of text made zero sense to Allen; he didn’t have his glasses nor the skill. He pouted his lip at Nea.

“What? You want me to explain it to you?” 

He took the cap off his pen and wrote, “ _Y38,”_ then scribbled it out. He settled on drawing a check mark.

“Okay, okay. There’s the note you grabbed, ‘John 3:3’, and another clear one which says, ‘Luke 24:31’. The other two notes aren’t very clear, but it seems like they’re from Isaiah and Numbers. Flip back to the pictures of the notes for me,” Nea said, leaning in.

Allen uniformly spread out all the pictures on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kanda curiously watching him.

Allen pulled out his notebook. _“W4TUHIN. CAR3FCL.”_

Nea slowly read out loud and reached for the closest parcel. “Watching, careful? Oh, forget him. He can blame floating papers on sleep deprivation.”

Squinting, Allen pulled one of the papers closer to where he crouched. Letters floated and swam through the mess of spoiled ink. The runny, blue letters were exposed as they flittered on the page, but he had to focus to decipher the message.

“We’ll never make heads or tails of this runny ink,” Nea muttered. “Let’s grab another file.”

He focused on writing this carefully, and spaced out each letter. _“N U M B F R S : 2 5 : 2.”_  

Nea ran his index finger over the scribble and then shook Allen excitedly. Allen gave him a silent, questioning look.

“You can make associations easy in this mess of runny ink because you can’t read well! That verse actually makes sense!”

Allen glowered and responded in big letters, _“R U D E. WH4T S4Y.”_

“Oh please, you know I didn’t mean it rude. It’s a blessing right now, isn’t it? Hold on, let me think; I only know the bible in Gaelic,” Nea tapped his fingers in the empty air, “Something like, ‘He said, which heard the voice--maybe words--of God, which saw the vision of the Almighty, falling into a trance, but having his eyes open.’”

Allen wanted to ask why he only knew the bible in a dead language, but it made sense if he was an old ghost. He had a lot he wanted to say, but was getting utterly frustrated with writing.

“You cold?” 

Allen looked up, and saw Kanda giving him a peculiar look.

“Shoot, I didn’t think about it,” Nea said, taking his hands off Allen’s shoulders. “Didn’t mean to shake you.”

An idea. “Does this look like Numbers 25:5 to you? And Isaiah 35:5?” Allen asked Kanda, but it wasn’t meant for Kanda.

“Isaiah thirty-” Nea trailed off and got on his hands and knees for a closer look. He grinned back at Allen and sent a thumbs up.

Kanda nearly jumped off the couch with interest and joined Allen on the floor. Unbothered, he picked a photo up from beneath Nea’s nose and brought it in close. Nea stuck his tongue out.

“Shit, it does look like that. I gave up on these before you came in. Do you have a bible handy?” Kanda asked. 

“Well, they’re all about eyes. The Isaiah verse says,” Allen paused and closed his eyes, letting Nea speak through him, “Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped.”

Allen repeated the other verse slow enough that Kanda could write it down on the bottom of the photo.

“You religious enough to have the bible memorized?” Kanda asked suspiciously.

“Not in the slightest. But it’s odd,” Allen said, begging himself not to look over at Nea.

“What’s odd?” Kanda asked, although Allen could tell Kanda wasn’t satisfied with his answer.

“The switch to ears. They were all about eyes, and then suddenly one ends about ears,” Allen murmured. “The angels, the mannequin: they both could see and breathe through their mouth. But only the angels on the bridge had uncovered ears. And they both were placed somewhere they could watch people pass, but the passerby wouldn’t notice them. I think he’s going to change his style. These verses are a clue to something.”

“He’s trying to make people see God,” Nea whispered excitedly. “Or become God?”

“So he’s only making more people into statues if we find them, because they can’t go on his fucked spiritual journey once we get there and stop him,” Kanda said. “Which is why nothing happened until we messed with the storefront.” 

Allen hadn’t thought of this.

“Is Kanda trying to make this your fault for finding the angels? He left clues, for God’s sake.” Nea’s fists clenched around the edge of a photo.

“Why did he leave clues to find the angels, then?” Allen practically gnawed on his bottom lip. 

“It was an animal's blood, not the girl’s blood, on the shirt. Which means he could have put the shirt on her at any time, and I bet that’s why no one noticed the mannequin in the storefront before: the bloody shirt wasn’t on her. Because he’s failing to complete his mission and he’s,” Kanda stared at the odd, bend photograph in Nea’s hand, “he feels guilt, in some fucked way. He’s not a psychopath, and he wants the bodies to have a proper burial. Who better to clean his shit up than the police department?”

Allen’s chest closed like a fist with each breath, and he reached for a stray file to distract him.

“It’s not your fault for finding the bridge, you know,” Kanda said, waiting for Allen to meet his gaze. 

 _Sounds like it was_ , he thought miserably.

He only hummed in response and continued to thumb through the file, even though he couldn’t read any of it from this distance.

“One of the kids lived. That’s better than, hey,” Kanda pulled the file from Allen’s hands and asked, “you can’t see very well, can you? You’re squinting and not following the lines.”

Allen scoffed and grabbed for it. Kanda recoiled back and held it out of reach.

“I can read just fine. Give the parcel back, and go back to sulking on the couch.”

“This isn’t even relevant for this case. And I didn’t say “read”, I said “see”. But if you specified “read”, I can only assume why you were looking through the file of photographs.”

Kanda was smarter than he looked, or at least his detective skills were sharp. He smugly sat back and waved the file.

“My eyes are bad. Piss off.” Allen lashed out like a wounded cat, but Kanda seized his arm with almost terrifying reflexes.

Kanda kept a tight grip on Allen’s arm as he attempted to pull it back. “I’m right, aren’t I? I just can’t believe I had you pinned as an English noble when you’re really-”

“You’re quite nosey for someone who ‘can’t be bothered to learn my name’. ‘Got a schoolgirl crush on me, Kanda?” Allen replied hotly, getting on his knees to match Kanda’s height sitting flat. He left his right arm for dead and attempted to snatch the file with his other.

Kanda tucked the file behind his belt in the back and easily snatched his left arm. They fell to an angry stalemate, and Allen’s movements barely even registered beneath Kanda’s iron grip.

“How can I trust you to help if you can’t even read the files for the case?” Kanda demanded.

“Maybe you can read them to me in that condescending tone of yours, and I’ll-”

Allen remembered with cold clarity that he hadn’t wrapped up his scarred arm this morning; the arm Kanda currently had control of.

Allen panicked and pushed and pulled. Kanda couldn’t match his frantic movements. They ended up in a tangled heap on top of Allen’s neatly laid out photos, with Allen’s hips in between Kanda’s thighs. Unfazed, Kanda kept a steel grip on Allen’s forearms pressed against his chest. A glimpse of burned, peach flesh. 

With his lips a breath away from Kanda’s own, he said, “Let go of me and give me back the file, bastard.”

“Say please,” Kanda replied with a sneer.

“Hey, guys, I made some more-” He heard the halt of footsteps, almost a gasp. “Oh, man, I must be seein’ things.”

“Get off,” Kanda said, completely fazed and borderline mortified at the sound of Fou's voice.

“I’ll come back later, then,” Fou added.

Kanda immediately unclenched his hands around Allen’s wrists. Allen, in his best attempt to be nonchalant, shook down his sleeve until the taupe fabric covered his burnt skin. Kanda hadn’t seemed to notice Allen’s embarrassment over his own.

“Give me the file, and I gladly will.” Allen smirked when he saw an internal battle of the Gods begin behind Kanda’s eyes.

It looked like he wanted Allen off, but didn’t want to lose the war over the file.

“Allen, that’s completely risque. Get up, before you embarrass yourself in front of your friend,” Nea huffed, reminding him of his presence. “Fou, remember?” 

He shot Nea a _yes, Mother_ , look from the corner of his eye, but Kanda begrudgingly reached behind and grabbed the file.

Allen took it with a sly hand and smiled. “Thanks, you’re a doll.”

Kanda scowled while Allen pulled himself up and dusted himself off; the floor was filthy.

“I’m going to find Fou, and that coffee,” Allen said, standing up and not bothering to look back at Kanda. 

Nea did, and he saw something intense and layered and strange in Kanda’s eyes. He felt his stomach knot up.

* * *

3:01 A.M.

He wandered down the desolate halls in a lightheaded but cheerful manner. Nea was scolding him, but he could only hear a dull buzzing from behind. A pair of hushed and angry voices in a shuttered office stopped his mission for coffee.

The placard outside the office stated in bored gold letters, “Lenalee Lee - 470”.

_“...disaster. Complete and utter disaster.”_

Allen walked up to the window and peeked in through the space between shutter and sidewall. He recognized Lenalee, her heart-shaped face poorly lit in cold cream by a small desk lamp. A man was pacing a hole in the floor, but stopping himself from stomping right before his foot graced the ground. His tight blonde strands were braided neatly, and his uptight and rigid posture was familiar.

“It’s not nice to eavesdrop,” Nea murmured. “But I am curious as to what’s so urgent at 3 in the morning.”

Allen hid himself from sight in a small space of painted brick between the windows of the office and door, and listened.

_“I don’t care, Lenalee. People have to feel safe. This entire case has been handled poorly since the beginning. No damage control from your end, whatsoever.”_

_Link, that’s what his name was,_ Allen remembered.

 _“I won’t do it. And you can’t take my case from me.”_ Lenalee barely hid her outrage, voice trembling; Allen assumed she didn’t get angry, until now.

_“Look at that pile on your desk and pick one. They’re all suspects for other charges, anyway.”_

_“But they aren’t a serial killer! Link, I won’t stand by while you lock up--”_

_“No one is innocent. And no one’s getting locked up. We need a face for the news, an arrest, and then you hold him here for interrogation. We’ll get the extensions so we can drag it out as long as possible, and then we can charge him for whatever you want. Jaywalking. Eating too loudly. If the headline ‘Entomber Suspect Charged’ breaks, people can move on.”_  

_“Ruining this man’s life? Ruining his family’s life?”_

_“For the peace of mind of the nation, it’s a small price. It may even draw out the real suspect who wants credit. Letting the media dwell on this--”_

_“I don’t care what they say about us! I don’t care--”_

_“You’ll be up for review in a year. A strong face in this case is the only thing that’ll save your job. Let me and a specialized group solve this case for you.”_

Someone slammed their hands on the desk, and Allen heard rapid footsteps towards the door. He sped down the hall, but didn’t make it far.

“Walker?” Lenalee questioned.

Allen turned to look and straightened his jacket nervously. “Oh, Lenalee! Didn’t know you were here.”

A terrible lie.

“What are you doing here at,” she looked down at her watch, “three A.M.?”

“Just going over some files. Kanda and I might’ve figured something out.”

“Kanda and you,” she repeated with a little airy laughter. “I knew I heard someone arguing earlier.”

Link stepped out of the office and looked at Allen tensely.

“Oh, Link, you’re here, too! Fou made more coffee, and I was going to get some,” he offered.

Link didn’t buy it, but then again, Allen didn’t either. The man masked suspicion with an even smile.

“Ah, Allen. Thanks for your help on that case.” Link added, “What are you doing here this late?”

“Going over some files. We might’ve found something,” Allen replied as warmly as he could, but it came across in sputtered nerves.

“On the Entomber? What is it?” Link spoke quickly.

Lenalee shot him an apprehensive look, and shook her head slightly from behind Link. Considering their conversation, Allen didn’t blame her. However, he didn’t know who he should make an enemy out of. Link, with power and mystery and fear, and Lenalee, with warmth and family and trust.

His collar felt too tight, and his mouth seemed too dry to speak. Nea shrugged when he looked for help.

“It’s probably nothing. I’ll update you if it pans out,” Allen finally replied.

Link opened his mouth to inquire again, but a delayed echo of shouting from somewhere in the station interrupted him. Fou’s shouting, followed by something large and heavy thrown in a burst of noise.

The trio sped towards the main office, and the shouting became tangible and nearly burst his eardrum.

“You! I just got gutted with an ice cream scoop by some central wanker because ye’ can’t ‘ossibly sign off on a single damn report! Did ye’ forget yer’ name again? Is this bloody country out of pens?”

“Fou, hold on just a second, Fou-”

Allen recognized that breezy voice and looked at Lenalee with bright eyes. She seemed just as excited, borderline delighted, albeit the obvious distress.

“Don’t ‘Fou’ me! I’ma goin’ to lock ya’ in yer’ office without food, water, or a pot to piss in until ye-” Fou stopped when the three entered the room.

A familiar redhead was shielding his face from Fou’s onslaught of words. There was an pink outline of a small but bulky handprint on Lavi’s cheek.

“Hey, guys,” Lavi said with a hitched and nervous laugh. “I’ve got good news.”

“Is it that ya’ actually done yer’ paperwork, and I’m not a bloody month behind?” Fou shouted while dragging her hands through her hair.

“I’ll make sure he does it, Fou,” Lenalee gently said. “No more field work until every last review is finished this time.”

“That’s not a waste of resources,” Link muttered so softly that it seemed like only Allen heard him.

Allen privately wondered if Link had ever laughed before. He imagined him working twelve hours every day, and then going home and collecting international stamps. Maybe polishing a collection of tiny ceramic cats.

“Underneath that annoying perfectionism, I’m sure he’s charming,” Nea offered to the snide comment. “Maybe.”

“Where have you even been, Lavi?” Lenalee asked, knowing she wouldn’t get a straight answer. “Just because you were promoted doesn’t mean you can shirk off your duties here.”

Lavi looked for an escape in the conversation and found Kanda in the growing crowd. Kanda had walked in so silently no one noticed, also drawn to the noise. 

“What’d you find?” Kanda flatly asked as he entered.

“Boat tickets,” Lavi replied enthusiastically, gracefully avoiding Lenalee’s question.

Kanda rolled his eyes. “So, nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Lavi slowly back stepped from Fou and pulled out his phone, “I have an electronic copy of the reports on the first victims, hot off the press! Both girls from the hospital in the shop window took the same tourist boat ride to the Aran Islands within a week. I also canvassed the hospital, since the security footage was lost from that night.”

“Sounds like a coincidence to me,” Kanda muttered. “It’s a tourist spot.”

“Or a way to transport bodies and pick out victims without the police checking that thoroughly,” Allen countered.

“Either way, both these girls were not Irish citizens--”

“So, tourists,” Kanda interrupted, “Going to a tourist spot. Like tourists do.”

Lavi continued, “And one had hallucinogens in her blood, but the girl who lived longer had it in a hair sample. Their reason for being in the hospital was dehydration. ‘Staff said it was like the girls were in a trance.”

“Hallucinogens?” Nea questioned. “Drugs don’t make for a priest.”

Behind everyone, Allen quickly pulled out his notebook and penned, “A TKANUE. BIDL3 V3RSE.”

“A what? Is that ‘K’ looking scribble an ‘R’?” Nea asked, leaning in to squint.

Allen drew a check mark.

“A trance, bible verse?” Nea read slowly, and his expression remained mismatched puzzle pieces.

“So, tourists, who also used drugs, going to a tourist spot--”

“Kanda, put a lid on the sarcasm for a moment,” Allen said.

Kanda gave him an annoyed look and readied a snarky comeback.

“Specifically, the staff said a trance?” Allen asked quickly.

“Yeah, word for word. Why?” Lavi asked.

“One of the bible verses from the bridge used that exact phrasing,” Allen said quietly. 

“What’s your point? If Lavi’s right, he was drugging them so they could have visions of God, and picked them out on the boat ride over. We need to see who works on these days on this boat and possibly,” Kanda was anything but sure, “has a second job at the hospital. Probably under a different name at one of the two. Forget the bible verses, they’re nonsense.”

Lenalee looked over at Link with a mixture of relief and righteousness. He didn’t respond with the same enthusiasm.

“I didn’t realize we had a motive already mapped out,” Link replied.

“We don’t. I’m guessing Kanda and Allen pieced something together this evening,” Lenalee shortly responded.

Allen couldn’t seem to digest what he was thinking, nor put it into words. Four notes, and one corresponded to the first crime scene. Four notes, two crime scenes.

“Angels are the spirits of righteous men made perfect,” Allen was barely audible, “'and except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God'. Or, would 'ears unstopped' fit better?”

“You’re stressing me out with that ugly face, Allen. What is it?” Nea insisted.

The conversation outside of his disorganized thoughts continued.

“I can send a team to start requesting tourist boats be searched, but we can’t do it with passengers onboard,” Lenalee said.

“Why not? That’s when he’ll be on the damn boat choosing a victim,” Fou asked, and then turned to Lavi. “Did that guy and his six kids book a family trip to the island with that company, too?” 

“It’ll break to the press in seconds, Fou. And I just drove straight here from Dublin, so I’m not completely caught up,” Lavi replied while skimming his screen.

Allen didn’t believe Lavi was sniffling around Dublin, but didn’t know where he would disappear to instead.

Kanda added, “And we’ll kill any chance we have left of finding him and the station’s dignity when we turn up empty handed. I’d put money on him already having the 7 victims on the island.”

“Well, Lavi and I can go question the owner of this boat, at the very least, but there’s something else,” Allen replied slowly. 

“I’m sure he’s happy to get accused of hiring a serial killer at three A.M. Tell me how it goes,” Kanda quipped back. 

Allen recounted the amount of crime scenes and the amount of notes. Surely he wasn’t that bad at math.

“You need sleep,” Nea said and rested his head in the small of Allen’s back. “You know, that beautiful thing called sleep, where you close your eyes and--”

“Lavi’s not going anywhere, Allen,” Lenalee stated while smiling at Fou. “He’s on official probation.”

“Yahoo!” Fou yelled, running back to her desk and pulling out a giant stack of files. “I’ll keep ‘im busy!” 

“No, Lenalee, don’t ground me on the most important case in history!” Lavi whined.

“I won’t even consider letting you leave this station until I can see the floor of your office,” Lenalee replied with an broad grin.

Lavi held up pleading hands. “Can Allen at least forge my signature on some of the papers? He’s really good at it, I promise!”

“No way, I need Allen’s head to keep this case moving. Speaking of which, where’d you find him, Lavi? I’m surprised another station didn’t snatch him up,” Lenalee asked.

“He’s a bartender,” Kanda scoffed. “Apparently.”

Allen finally blurted out, “We missed a crime scene.”

Everyone stopped and perplexion crossed their faces in various stages.

“We _what_?” Kanda said.

“A bartender?” Lenalee quietly asked.

Lavi pulled his winter scarf looser and timidly laughed.

“Four notes, two crime scenes. If one of the notes describes exactly the first crime scene, then,” Allen trailed off.

“Sounds like we missed two crime scenes, not one,” Lavi replied darkly. 

“No,” Allen had thought this at first, too, “one note is for the next murders. And one note is for murders we missed.” 

3:58 A.M. A pause, long and drawn out and vomit inducing. They all could have passed by a handful of people sandwiched in cement. Allen could have walked past them while they were still living, pleading for help like the green eyes of the child now sleeping in a morgue.

Kanda rubbed his brow. “Well, fuck, where do we look first?”

Link glanced at his pocket and retrieved an expensive phone. He left the entryway without a word, dialing pensively as he exited.

“Let’s not lose our heads over this!” Lenalee said, clasping her hands together. “Fou, get every officer not working tonight out of bed and on their way here! Besides Lavi, of course. We need three teams: a patrol squad on the island for the new victims, another patrol in the city for potential victims, and surveillance on the docks to catch our killer. We’re going to have this guy by tomorrow night, you hear me?”

* * *

 

  



	6. Be Wary of Coincidences

As officers sluggishly dragged themselves to the station, Lenalee recapped the case details, as if they were going to find a shred of evidence, an overlooked table scrap that would solve the case.

Allen dozed off as Lenalee drawled on, whiteboard marker waving, a furious conductor’s baton to her sleepy orchestra. The clock inched towards five in the morning, and he silently wished he’d joined Nea in the search of a broom closet to sleep in.

“From the top! Our killer started, we’re assuming, with the girls in the shop window. These girls were admitted to the hospital, and the time between the hospital and abduction is unclear. I’m working on getting the tapes, but it could still be a week. Then, we have the four,” Lenalee’s breathing hitched like she drove over a speed bump, “the four kids on the bridge and the four bible verses. The child who lived is not in stable condition yet, but the parents immediately denied us from questioning Timothy.”

“Our running theory is that this most likely religiously driven, and that our killer works within the hospital or possibly works on a tourist boat ride to the Aran Islands. We believe they are taking victims to the Aran Islands to murder and,” Lenalee’s voice started to fade out, “embalm the victims. It’s unclear if there are other vic…”

His chin slid off his hand and startled him awake.

A hand brushed his shoulder. “Sleepy, are we?”

“Tyki,” a large yawn escaped Allen, “good morning.”

“What’s good about it,” Kanda muttered, and Allen flinched, nearly falling off his chair.

“How long have you been sitting there?” Allen asked incredulously.

Chairs scattered the briefing room, with so few officers Allen imagined tumbleweeds rolling past Lenalee’s feet. And yet, there Kanda slouched with a file between two fingers, face knotted like rotten tree roots.

“He just wanted a front row seat to watch you take a header into the floor. Honestly, you have to get some sleep. We all aren’t zombies like Kanda,” Tyki replied.

“Lenalee called you to the station at three in the morning, and it’s,” Kanda looked at his watch but Allen was sure he already knew, “5:02. You certainly weren’t late because of beauty sleep."

Kanda and Tyki’s argument officially ensued at 5:03:16 A.M., and Allen thought this might have been a personal best for the pair. 

“Anyone need coffee? I could use a whole pot, myself,” Allen said, more as an excuse to escape rather than recaffeinate.

Kanda phased out of the argument by putting an index finger in front of Tyki’s face.

“Black, no sugar. You won’t screw that up, will you barkeep?” Kanda said with a smirk.

Allen nodded in exaggerated, quick and short movements. “That’s five sugars and cream, right? Anything for you, Tyki?”

“Unfortunately, anything I drink this early needs to be much stronger than coffee,” Tyki replied while pulling out a handkerchief to push Kanda’s finger away from his face.

As Allen left the room, he heard a mumbled, uneasy, “He won’t really put all that sugar in my coffee, will he?”

* * *

The smell of fresh coffee coaxed him through the halls until he drooled in front of Lavi’s office door. He could barely see in the office, but from the percentage of paper versus desk and floor, turning around seemed like a better option.

_“Shit, shit, SHIT-”_

The door slammed shut from a wave of air, followed by many paper towers crashing and splaying in an unwedged avalanche of noise.

“Lavi,” Allen pushed against the partially blocked door and eyed the mess, ”you sorted in here?”

Lavi’s glared at the rubble with such darkness in his eyes that no paper dared to settle. Somehow, it was considerably _less_ mess than Allen’s last visit. A pen stuck sideways from Lavi’s mouth, and he collapsed back in his chair, draping a file over his eyes. 

“Allen, buddy,” Lavi sputtered like a worn music box, ”you’ve got to stop Fou. She just keeps bringing in more papers. And more papers, and-”

“Hand me a pen,” Allen said, pushing up his sleeves and clearing a chair of debris. 

Lavi’s eyes brightened and he sat up, the file slipping off his head to join the others on the floor.

“Really? You’ll help? Oh, thank Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, I thought I was going to die by a thousand papercuts!”

“I just don’t want to be sandwiched between Kanda and Tyki when we go check the docks,” Allen muttered.

“Ha, sorry to run off like that, on your first day and all,” Allen pointedly sipped his coffee, “when I get an order from up top, I can’t exactly say ‘no’.”

“What were you doing for so long? You had Lenalee worried,” Allen asked, silently thanking either Jesus or Joseph or Mary (whoever was listening of the three) that you didn’t have to know what signatures said, as long as there was a giant “L” and a heart over the “i”.

“Lenalee was worried?” Lavi asked, with a little too much excitement. “I didn’t know she’d be worried. How worried?”

“Yes, you worried your boss by shirking work,” Allen replied while rolling his eyes. “You worried me, too, but I don’t have those gorgeous eyes and lips, do I?”

Lavi laughed at this, fighting a faint blush and delving into the paperwork.

“So, what is it? You obviously didn’t find a girlfriend to settle down with, if you’re still smitten with-”

“There’s a ripper impersonator,” Lavi replied quickly, and continued signing files and throwing them into a metal box near his desk.

Coffee went up Allen’s nose and he could only cough in response. Lavi didn’t register Allen choking for three consecutive files, and only noticed that Allen’s hand had stopped signing.

“What?”

“Ripper impersonator?” Allen questioned as he cleared his burning throat.

“Oh, yeah, like “Jack the Ripper”, but we don’t come by too many sex workers in Ireland, so at first all we had was a bunch of women murdered in bed and breakfasts. No explanation-”

“The woman, from Adare,” Allen mumbled, lost in thought. 

“Yep, we found one in Adare--but how do you know that? This case isn’t in with the press yet, and it shouldn’t be with the station, either. Link actually found price tags on ‘er, and we figured out that he’s making the women look like they work in the sex industry. For the narrative. We identified the two other Jane Doe’s, and then the case went cold. So I came to check in here.”

Allen mulled over explaining why he knew, but decided against revealing that he ditched Kanda, yelled at a witness, and possibly missed the Entomber. Another time.

“Have there always been this many serial killers in Ireland?” Allen replied, tossing a file with a satisfying clunk into the box.

“Statistical anomaly,” Lavi picked up a stack with a thick coating of dust from the floor, “there’s bound to be an influx of killers for a year, and then no killers the next. You did pick the town with the nickname ‘Stab City’ to retire to in your old age, Allen.”

“Hey, respect your elders! Especially if they do your paperwork,” Allen replied.

“So you do admit you look like a grand-”

“And yet, Lenalee would still much rather date me than your lazy-”

The door swung open, and Fou stood righteous with one foot on a stuffed box of files. She speechlessly stared down Allen, caught with pen in his left hand and quite afraid.

The tone of her voice mirrored a calligraphist's hand and she spoke like she was a witness to murder.

“-Distracting him? Are you, Allen Walker, distracting ‘im?”

“He’s helping!” Lavi chimed in, then covered his mouth as if he could trap the words inside.

“He better not be helping more than moral support, right, Lavi?” Fou stomped in and snatched the pen from Allen’s hand.

Allen recoiled back into his chair. “What do you ‘ave to say for yerself, Walker, before I tell Lenalee you were committin’ fraud in your first month working ‘ere?!”

“I just don’t want to be stuck with Kanda and Tyki,” Allen squeaked out. “It’s all I wanted, I swear, and the high treason was worth it to not hear them argue for five minutes.”

She slammed a box down on the desk. “You’d rather be stuck with this halfwit? He’ll probably disappear on ye’ within fifteen minutes.” 

“Hey!” Lavi called out.

Allen nodded without an ounce of uncertainty in his eyes. “Undoubtedly. He buys me food and lets me nap in the car." 

Fou made a face of subdued amusement amid anger, and then longingly eyed the full stack of finished papers. Finally settling on angrily clenching her fists, she replied, “I won’t make ‘im redo ‘em, but he does the rest, ‘ye hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Lavi mumbled while rubbing a finger in his ear.

“What was that?” Fou yelled.

Allen ducked out of the office and checked his watch. 6:03 A.M. He sighed, a broken fireplace bellow's last smoky exhale, knowing there were only a handful of minutes before they began to leave--the islands were quite a drive from Limerick.   

Looking back at Lavi now under careful scrutiny, Allen pouted his lip, and Lavi gave him a general’s salute. He trudged towards the briefing room, rounding a corner only to nearly knock foreheads with Lenalee.

“Oh, Allen! I’m so glad I found you, but then again, you're always here when I need help!”

He wondered where she found the energy to be the brightest shade of yellow at six in the morning.

Lenalee continued. “Would you mind partnering with Wisely? Krory’s doing blood spatter analysis in Dublin this morning, so Wisely’s left without a partner. It’s silly to throw you in with Kanda and Tyki, and you seem to be fitting in smoothly!”

“Wisely,” Allen racked his sputtering and sleep deprived brain to remember who that was.

“Short, British accent, always with Tyki, really intricate dastaar,” she motioned around her head like she was tying a ponytail, “he’s very kind, but comes across a little smarmy at first. You two would probably get along really well, actually; it's the same wink of British humor you have!”

He was getting better at deciphering Lenalee code, an encryption method of making everything pleasant and sunny in the homicide department, and this roughly translated to: he’s an asshole, but he probably means well.

“Right, I think I remember,” Allen replied while grasping for even a shred of a memory.

He didn’t remember in the slightest.

“Great! Listen, Wisely and you will take the docks. I’m assuming you don’t have a lot of training with interrogation, right? Wisely is pretty good at that sort of thing, mostly because of all the very passionate officers," Allen substituted 'very passionate officers' for 'hot-headed idiots ready to fight over pocket change, maybe less', "we have on this force, so let him take the lead.” Lenalee said.

Allen absently nodded, his attention on a cracked broom closet.

Nea appeared in a smoky haze, almost as if he’d sucked the shadows out of the room. He yawned and stretched out the limbs that still took the shape of the tiny closet.

"Ready to go? I hope you found somewhere to sleep, because I felt absolutely dreadful before my nap! Speaking of which-”

* * *

Sleep was waging a completely valid battle against him, but he refused for his first impression to be “that guy who slept the whole way to meeting a key witness”.

Wisely didn’t speak, drove evenly and exactly five kph over the speed limit, sat with perfect posture in a reclined seat, and didn’t even throw Allen a single glance.

“He’s one of those snooty cops who thinks you need training and qualifications, isn’t he?” Nea muttered from the back of the car.

_Was Wisely really icing me out over the lack of qualifications? If anything, the man just looks unsettled_ , Allen thought.

Wisely’s gaze was bored but commanding, like lacquered shark eyes; the iris was speckled with darker bronze as if the flecks were in fossilized amber. Allen remembered Lenalee referring to Wisely as short and glowered, still staring at Wisely to be sure. They were practically the same height and build. No, they definitely were. He also wore a intricate, striped turban, perfectly wrapped so that the delicate black and white pattern laid evenly. The design was mesmerizing, almost like an optical illusion-

“I’m Sikh. It’s a symbol of my faith.” Wisely didn’t even glance over at him when he spoke.

Insulting him was probably Allen’s second to last way to establish communication, nor did he want to come across as your friendly neighborhood racist Brit. The misplaced glare directly at his turban probably didn’t aid his case.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to stare! I’ve just never seen a turban so ornate,” Allen replied, averting his eyes and losing the battle to embarrassment with reddened cheeks.

Wisely looked a little surprised, then loosened his posture. “Some people don’t take too kindly to my faith here, although the Irish are a better lot than most of Europe. Someone important to me gave me this cloth, and it really livens up the bland uniform, don’t you think?” 

Allen blinked a few times, then nodded. The uniforms, standard navy blue fabric with a pancaked cap, could certainly use a little pattern. Wisely also had the visibility jacket, sporting radioactive yellow, loosely draped over his shoulders. Tyki once told him he would rather take Lavi’s paperwork than wear the “abomination of sight, and possibly sound,” jacket.

“That was a joke, I think,” Nea whispered.

“That was a joke,” Wisely added when Allen didn’t laugh. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“No, just for work,” Allen replied before Nea could interject again.

“You’re a bartender and a cop, right?” Wisely flipped his turn signal, “I bet you’re good at reading people, right?”

“I,” Nea rubbed his lip, “I don’t know if that’s praise or an insult.”

“I’m good at telling when someone’s had too many, but besides that, I'm a bit lost when it comes to interrogation. A bit lost with most of the stuff that comes with being a cop, really,” Allen finally replied with a laugh. 

Wisely looked at Allen in confusion. “Nonsense. You talk with people from all corners of Ireland, maybe just for a passing drink, but everyone goes to a pub for comfort in some form. It takes empathy to be a bartender, and it takes empathy to be a cop. Most guarda don’t care about people, because they’ve seen the same story, over and over, just played out with different characters. People seem like cardboard cutouts after a while. It’s only natural. It helps them let go of the bad cases.”

Allen wondered if Kanda, Tyki, especially Lavi, saw victims like cardboard cutouts. 

“You won’t make it in the homicide department if you can’t separate emotion from cases, and yet that’s exactly what you need to solve them. It’s why I spend my time in the lab processing evidence or interrogating witnesses or, really, whatever Lee requests. I only interact with cases for a few hours, and then I'm done. Plus, the bonus of not having to chase after people. You just need to find your niche.”

“He's not wrong, you know,” Nea commented while watching Allen’s eyebrows pinch up.

“Do all guarda end up that way? Seeing people like mannequins, or ending up behind a desk?” Allen asked after silence began to build up on the windshield.

Wisely pursed his lips, almost biting his cheek, and said, “From my experience, the ones that don't get behind a desk have a proper burnout. Burnout’s are rare, but they happen. ‘Few months back, a guy at our station had a breakdown of sorts after a bad case. He’s on leave still, but I don’t see him coming back. A desk isn't so bad, either.”

“You’re reading too much into this, Al. Also, we definitely aren’t headed to the islands,” Nea said.

“We’re making a quick stop,” the car drifted off an exit ramp, “I promised I’d see my sister if I was ever down this way.”

They were in the quaint town of Lisdoonvarna, which sported only about 800 people. The buildings were painted in only happy colors and designs like pastel rainbows; the streets and walkways lacked a single piece of litter. A child’s playset, built with vibrant blocks and wooden people.

“Why does he need to see his sister when we’re on our way to interrogate someone?” Nea muttered.

“Your sister lives here?” Allen asked in a polite version of Nea’s question.

“My sister goes where there’s information,” Wisely replied cryptically, “most people are lucky enough to never meet her.”

Wisely pulled the car partly on the curb in front of an indigo sign, “Sheedy’s Hotel - 4 Star Restaurant”. The hotel loomed down a drive that almost stretched to the horizon, past rolling gardens and a rare furrow of trees.

“You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to,” Wisely said as he unbuckled his seatbelt. 

He was too intrigued to watch from the car window and followed Wisely into the gardens of the hotel.

They waited. Allen checked his watch and noticed it had only been 22 seconds since he last glanced at it. When he looked up, he nearly lost his footing in the loose soil due to fright.

A school girl, complete with a knee-length tartan skirt, emblazoned black sweater, and slicked-back short hair. A school girl?

She held out a hand and brightly smiled while looking up at him. “Road Kamelot. Pleasure to meet ya’.”

Her skin was similar to Wisely’s golden and sepia tones, but her eyes held more darkness, layers of umber and onyx, bourbon with extra honey on ice. There was something bitter and malicious in her gaze masked with brightness and warmth; two different emotions meant for two different people. But mostly, she reminded him of Nea.

“Allen Walker.” Allen tentatively shook her hand, and felt her slip something plastic up his sleeve. He made a move to look, but Nea put his hand on Allen’s arm. 

“She didn’t make us drive to a tiny town or hide behind a handshake for a reason,” Nea murmured.

“Skipping school again?” Wisely asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I went for an hour or so. I wouldn’t slick my beautiful spikes back just to fool you,” she countered, then looked at Wisely sternly. “Are they trustworthy?”

“So you can see me, girl,” Nea said suspiciously. 

Road stuck a tongue out at Nea.

“They seem honest enough,” Wisely replied.

Allen blinked a couple of times before realizing one: both Wisely and Road could hear Nea. Two, Wisely had directly replied to Nea’s words in the car. Three, which was more of an addendum to one, they didn’t know him in the slightest, and they could hear, maybe even fully see Nea.

“Hold on a second,” both Allen and Nea said in unison.

“I told you, you don’t get out enough. Plenty of people can sense spirits,” Wisely said while folding his arms.

“He’s saying that to scare ya’. We just share a high affinity for stuff like this, kinda like Miss Anita. And I’m probably the only one who’s ever seen him,” Road replied. “But, the more underground you get in this country, the more people notice the world around them. I’d be more careful about flaunting him around.”

“Do you know people like me?” Allen asked, feeling a little hope blossom in his stomach.

Road didn’t match his excitement, nor look at him directly. She stared directly at Nea. “Humans weren’t meant to walk with spirits. There’s no balance between evil and good in this land, and spirits are cropping up everywhere. The beauty here hides it, enshrouds the demons of this land that walk among you. Why do you think there’s a man crafting angels out of humans?”

“Road,” Wisely said in a stern, mother’s voice.

Road shot Wisely a glare. “At any rate, I tracked down who sold your guy the, let’s see, the firewood. Turns out it was a bad batch of firewood, rotted and moldy, and he had to give everyone a refund of sorts. ‘Cause the firewood ended up causing, uh,” she snapped her fingers, “poisonous smoke! Poisonous enough to send people to the hospital. Except he couldn’t get a hold of two separate guys he sold the firewood to.”

Allen’s expression looked a lot like he was holding a roadmap upside down, still trying to figure out how to get to the interstate.

Nea rubbed his brow and explained, “The dealer, who sold the Entomber the drugs he used on the mannequins, accidentally gave him rotten mushrooms. That caused the girls to end up in the hospital, probably. And when the dealer attempted to make it right with everyone who bought the rotten 'shrooms, two people didn’t want repayment.”

“Everyone wants repayment for bad firewood, unless they don't need repayment,” Road said with a nod in Nea’s direction.  

“How do we know this is the guy who sold them the bad firewood?” Wisely inquired with folded arms. “Lots of people sell bad firewood."

“Do you not trust me?”

Wisely rolled his eyes. “Of course I do.”

“Have you looked into who these guys are? So we can,” Allen worked on a metaphor for a moment, “repay them for the firewood?”

“Haven’t had the time. I am in school,” Road said with a wink.

“I’m assuming Allen has their names, and Wisely can run their names through the database back at the station,” Nea said.

“Why do you want to help your host so bad, Nea Campbell?” Road asked, and the strange glimmer in her eyes made sense; she knew Nea. “Is it because-”

“We’re late.” Nea responded curtly, grabbing Allen’s arm and yanking him in the direction of the car.

“Hey!” Allen yelped and shook himself loose.

Nea dug holes in the soil with his heels, slamming the car door and refusing to even think in their direction.

“Always so much drama with him,” Road murmured.

Allen silently thanked the lack of passerbys to a haunted car, and excused himself from Road and Wisely.

He climbed in the passenger seat, fighting the urge to ask a million rattling questions. Through the grating, Nea was making a point to glower at anything but Allen. 

“She knew your full name,” Allen said quietly.

“She knows a lot of things she shouldn’t,” Nea snapped while attempting to melt the window with his eyes.

“Why-”

“You’re the last person this involves, Allen!” Nea said in a shrill and venomous tone, then quickly added, “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept much, and it’s made me cranky.”

A silence fell over the car like sprinkling rain, just enough water to be obnoxious. Road and Wisely continued to talk from afar until they hugged goodbye. Road began to walk towards the bus stop nearby. Allen wondered if their parents moved to Ireland, or if it was just the two of them. It was obvious that Road didn’t keep the same faith as her brother, with cut hair and an obvious reach into underground Ireland. Their accents didn’t match, either, and it was obvious Road had spent a lot more time in Ireland. He ultimately decided that it really didn’t involve him at all.

Wisely let himself in the car and buckled before turning over the engine. Allen opened his mouth to speak and reached for his sleeve.

Wisely spoke first, looking straight ahead. “It’s so interesting to me that they’ve installed microphones and cameras in our cars now. It’s good to hold both cops and criminals accountable, isn’t it?”

“That’s definitely a brilliant idea,” Allen replied with a voice flat but wobbly like freshly poured concrete, feeling as if he was hiding a loaded gun up his sleeve.

* * *

Doolin was a flat town that barely weathered the tourist season without bursting like teeth puncturing overripe fruit. It was the end of October, and the town should’ve still been flourishing with visitors, the docks flooded with people on their way to the islands, the pubs lit with people and noise. 

“It’s empty,” Allen commented as he stepped out of the car.

“It’s seven in the morning,” Wisely responded, “but it is emptier than it should be. At least it makes our job easier.”

Allen pushed and shoved his way through the heavy morning fog, nearly losing his footing on the loose gravel beneath him. The ocean crashed and beat against the cement colored rocks piled on the shoreline, providing the only noise left in town. A few shabby, tired kiosks and storefronts eventually emerged from the fog, but Wisely pulled at his sleeve before he could get a closer look. 

“The person we’re going to talk to is a bitter, angry man because the investigation has stolen all of his business. Does he sound like he wants to answer questions?” Wisely said.

“Not particularly,” Allen replied, getting a little gloomy from the prospect of a wasted trip.

“So, we have to appeal to what he wants,” Allen realized he was getting coddled, “What do you think that is?”

Suddenly, Allen realized only Wisely and he got out of the car. “Nea?”

“Forget the drama queen for a moment and focus,” Wisely said while rubbing his temples.

“Alright, the usual police bribes are money, information, and dropping charges, and-” Allen yawned so deeply his eyes teared up.

“Do you only watch crime shows? Under the table shit only flies with the upper division; this station will drown under another scandal,” Wisely hissed. “Just leave it to me, then, and stand back.”

Allen nodded, only peach-toned embarrassed, and followed him up to a kiosk that read “Doolin 2 Aran Ferries” in a bold lemon font. He kept his distance from Wisely, a few paces back, but close enough to listen.

The man was stout like a well-aged beer, ginger-haired but unmistakably balding, and somewhat familiar. Allen couldn’t place where he knew him from: the bar, possibly? But no one from Doolin would drive an hour-

“I said, I ‘aint talkin’ to no damn pigs!”

Oh. Allen realized where he knew the man from. The fateful encounter at the Mustard Seed Inn. And he knew exactly how to play him.

He sauntered up to the shop window, casually placing his arms on the counter. His poker face struck fear in any Vegas casino, but the man remained unamused with narrow eyes and tense shoulders. 

“We’re here to talk to you, not the other way around,” Allen said in a hushed whisper.

The man went from composed anger to a fully formed tantrum. “You! I’m not dealin’ with yer’ sorry lot! Ye’ better get off my counter and my property, this instant!”

“It’s about your sister,” Allen said, then shot Wisely a look, “I’m not actually a cop. I’m working off my time as an informant for these sorry idiots who can’t take a joke.” 

Wisely wiped the shock off his face and grew stern. “Yeah, I’m assigned to this asshole today. ‘Said the first of kin had to be notified about a development.” 

A pause. The man mulled through their story. Allen realized he needed more convincing.

“Sorry ‘bout how crass I was at the crime scene. Bein’ around these cops gives me a hell of a migraine,” Allen said, then leaned his cheek on his hand. “So, you wanna hear about your sis’? ‘Cause I have things to do.”

“I can understand that,” the man eventually mumbled, then added, “They told me they dropped her case. ‘Aid there wasn’t any evidence. ‘Aid she’s a right lady of the night, and ‘ese things happen.”

“Of course they did,” Allen said, shooting Wisely an annoyed glance as if it were somehow his fault.

Wisely rifled through his pockets. “Call me when you’re done; I need a smoke. And if you make a run for it-” 

He doubted that Wisely actually smoked, but he needed some excuse to leave Allen to work.

“Yes, yes, handcuffs and the whole arresting deal,” Allen replied with an accidental-but well placed-yawn.

Wisely stalked off towards the ocean and Allen jabbed his thumb in the other’s direction, “Damn lazy cops make me do all the work. If they’d get off their asses, we wouldn’t have a guy murdering children and puttin’ ‘em on bridges, for Gods’ sake.”

Allen studied the man’s face. Grim, pale, with a side order of anger. He didn’t look Allen in the eyes when he replied.

“A damn tragedy, it is. ‘And they’re drivin’ away all the damn business,” he said while turning to organize tickets.

He quickly changed the subject upon the sudden loss of interest. 

“Anyway, about your sis’. She wasn’t a prostitute, like I told ya’ before.”

The man turned back towards him and nearly grabbed his hands. “I knew it! I knew it had to be some mistake!” He exclaimed.

He was looking Allen in the eyes again, slightly drunk at seven in the morning and seafoam like the waves churning in the cove.

Allen got close enough to him to smell bourbon and whispered, “Some sick lout dressed her up like that. ‘Got another girl in the same condition up the coast. It’s a huge case, and the cops are attemptin’ to snuff it out. ‘Ust thought you should know before the reporters start showing up, asking questions and sniffing around.”

Fear, quickly masked and written off, at the idea of someone taking a look around.

“Thank ye’,” he said quietly, and it was said with such deep gratitude that Allen felt his hair stand up on end.

“They won’t even give me the body to give her a proper funeral.”

“A proper funeral? Wouldn’t one just say bury?”

Allen jerked his head over his shoulder and saw Nea, still simmering, but putting the tantrum on hold for intrigue.

“What? What is it?” The man said, looking as well.

“I, uh,” Allen looked back at the man, “I wanted to see if Wisely was listening in. ‘Least I can do is shake the upstairs tree a little by asking questions for ya'. Maybe we can get your sister out of the morgue and in a proper casket, right?”

The man nodded, but didn’t say anything. 

“Well, I’ve got to go. Here’s my number,” Allen scrawled the digits on the back of a ticket, “Call me tonight, and I’ll tell ya’ what I’ve got.”

“All those numbers look right. I’m so proud,” Nea cooed, and Allen fought the impulse to retort something rude over his shoulder. 

Allen began to walk away, enough distance to seem believable, before turning around like he’d forgotten his wallet. “I gotta’ ask, you seen anything unusual ‘round these docks? I might be able to barter less time workin’ with these guarda if ye’ have a shred on the Entomber.” 

The man looked a bit wary at first--probably due Allen’s terrible attempt at an informal Irish accent mixed with a strict London undertone.

“I don’t really ‘ave much to tell. But,” he bit the inside of his lip in indecision, “when shit hit the fan ‘round here with the news coverage, I started to ‘ook at people different. I got this boy workin’ for me, and I’m not sayin’ he’s a murderer, but he acts a little funny. Like he ain’t himself sometimes. He’s probably just smokin’ weed on the job. But a drug bust could still earn ye’ a few points; he’s probably growin’ weed out on the island ‘cause no cops check it.”

Allen tried to act as nonchalant as possible, but was starting to lose his facade to excitement. “‘You have the days he works and doesn’t work, maybe an address? So we could catch him at his house, you know, smoking?” 

“Should be on his application,” he mulled through a few files, “Yeah, he lives on Inishmore, down in Kilronan. Said his dad owns a lot of land on one of the islands, I bet that’s where ye’ can find the crops. Here’s the address.”

Allen copied the address down on the back of a ticket.

“Damn, maybe I’ve just been workin’ him too hard. He hasn’t had a day off in a week or so! Bet today was a long time ‘comin for the lad!”

“He’s off today,” Allen repeated.

“You’d need a whole day off to embalm people,” Nea added.

“Yep, and tomorrow,” the man added.

“Right, well, thank you, and-” Allen couldn’t work out a proper sentence.

“Mention his sister to make him feel better about tattling on his coworker,” Nea whispered.

“I’ll look into your sister. Don’t forget to call,” Allen said, voice weak as watered-down tea.

“Are you finally done? We’ve already been assigned somewhere else!” Wisely yelled, just loud enough for the shopkeep to hear him.

“Wisely-”

“Walk with me,” Wisely muttered so low it was almost lost in the fog, and they headed towards the rocky shore.

When they sat down, Wisely grinned, almost laughing as he spoke. “I really didn’t think you were going to pick up on my plan, but you’re smarter than you seem, Walker. Lucky break, knowing him and all.”

“Plan?” Allen asked.

Wisely blinked a couple of times. “The fake arguing before the storefront? It was obvious it would've taken me far too much energy to get anything, so," Allen's eyebrows remained pinched up, "nevermind, then. What’d you get?”

“The guy was a little off himself, but his angry outbursts don’t really fit the meticulous method of the crime,” Nea said, skipping a rock over the rocking waves.

“He talked about a kid that worked for him, owned a lot of land on one of the islands, and acted a bit funny sometimes,” Allen added. “And said he hadn’t had a day off in a week or so." 

“Probably just smokes pot,” Wisely muttered.

“That’s what he said. I got his address and name, but-”

“Pull up your sleeve,” Wisely said, suddenly intrigued. 

Allen reached into his sleeve and felt a slight panic when he didn’t find anything. “Its-”

“Other sleeve,” Nea said, and pulled out a tiny plastic bag burned closed despite Allen’s dismay at him reaching into his coat.

“Mushrooms, which I can only hope are for lab comparison, and,” Nea reached back into Allen’s coat and lifted out a scrap of paper.

“Shay Penrum and Mark Campbell. No relation, before you ask, it’s just a common surname in this country,” Nea said.

Allen flipped the ticket he received from the man and frowned. “Ryan Murphy.”

“Sound’s like Ryan Murphy isn’t our guy,” Nea muttered, and settled on just throwing rocks into the ocean now.

Wisely looked perplexed, and took the ticket from Allen’s hand. “This says Sean Murphy.”

“Does it? I must really need some sleep,” Allen quickly replied with a laugh that got stuck in his throat like over-chewed gum.

“Ryan or Sean, it doesn’t matter. Who the hell has the last name Penrum, anyway?” Nea’s tone slid from slightly annoyed to utterly cranky. 

“It does matter,” Wisely said, then looked at Allen, “do you have any paper?”

Allen fumbled through his jacket and eventually found the little black notebook. Wisely flipped to a free page and began writing what looked like nonsense, although somewhat resembling what Allen usually wrote. 

_“A RHYMES PUN. HUMANS PREY. ASH REM PUNY. SHAY P E N R U M. S E A N M U R P H Y.”_ Wisely began to circle letters in both names.

Allen squinted at the letters, but he couldn’t make sense of them. 

“It’s an anagram. Well, one’s an anagram and one is the kid’s name, and I’m betting you wouldn’t give a drug dealer your real name,” Nea explained. “Or have the last name Penrum.”

“We have to go immediately, then! We have his address!” Allen said.

“We’re going back to the station, after I call someone on the island team, so I can run him through the database. If we’ve got an ounce of luck left after today, there will be something we can bust down his door for,” Wisely replied, standing up. “Until then, we don’t even have any probable cause, much less a valid body of evidence, and this is just a coincidence.”

“Someone sensible, finally,” Nea said. 

Wisely unlocked his phone, and Allen noticed Tyki and Road both had a star next to their numbers. It also showed he’d recently called Road for six minutes during the time Allen was talking to the man. 

“Yeah, Tyki? It’s Wisely.” Wisely’s face soured like he stepped in mud.

“Yes, I have heard of Caller ID. This is kind of important.” 

“Are you done? Because I might have the Entomber’s name and address.” 

“Not on the island? Then where the hell are you two?” 

Wisely hung up and cursed, then began dialing again. It rang. Wisely closed his eyes and exhaled in annoyance. The phone rang a total of four times until the other hung up on him.

“Nevermind the luck. Devit never picks up the damn phone; Jas doesn’t even have a phone. And Tyki and Kanda’s car is apparently smoking,” Wisely muttered. “Damn budget cuts, we can’t even afford antifreeze.”

“Is anyone else on the island?” Nea asked.

“We’re pretty damn close to it,” Allen deadpanned, palming one of the craggy and coarse rocks. He threw it and watched it sink in the dark water until it was gone from sight.

“You aren’t going,” Nea responded flatly like a spatula crushing an unruly pancake.

“There’s Jas, Devit, and a few rookies who might barge in there and get the case thrown out of court before we even start the investigation,” Wisely started throwing stones, too, “And Link, but he’s not an option.”

“Why not?”

“This has to be Lenalee’s win, not the upper division’s win, if we don’t want the brass to replace her,” Wisely responded. “Link has the strings to fake probable cause and bring him in, even if he isn’t our guy. Plus, if the station doesn’t get the credit, we’ll lose any trust we have left with the public.”                                                                                                                        

“So it’s only politics stopping us from making sure he doesn’t kill six more people,” Allen muttered and stood up. 

“I’m going, then. I can’t sit around while-” Allen stopped when met with explosive anger in Nea’s eyes.

“Do you have to be such a child? You don’t have any case, any partner, nor any skills to take down a serial killer! Listen to Wisely if you won’t listen to me, for God’s sake!” Nea exclaimed, voice piercing and shaking pitch from anger. 

“Oh, I’m the child who had a temper tantrum in the car because someone knew my last name! That was me, right?” Allen yelled in response. “Excuse me for wanting to try to save someone’s life! How terrible!” 

Nea clenched his fists. “You’re supposed to be consulting on cases! Consulting! You’re not supposed to galavant across the countryside, meet up with cryptic drug dealers and-”

“I think you, of all people, know my sister isn’t a drug dealer,” Wisely said, but was swallowed by the argument.

“You don’t have to follow me around, and you definitely aren’t my keeper!” Allen’s words barely made it through teeth practically grinding off the enamel. 

Nea narrowed his eyes and suddenly spoke evenly, quietly, morbidly, a voice during the wake before a funeral. “Fine. Right, botch the case, get arrested, even murdered for all I care. I won’t bother you anymore.” 

“Brilliant! Been waiting to hear that for months!” Allen yelled, but Nea had already dissipated into the fog. 

Silence. Pure, unadulterated, empty, blind. 

The waves even gave up on the shore; just slate fog and glassy water and a horrible build up of guilt under his nails. 

Wisely’s voice.

“You guys fight like that often?”

“No,” Allen replied, thawing out like melted ice cream,“maybe once or twice in the beginning.”

“He’ll come back once he cools off, then,” Wisely offered.

Allen pursed his lips. “Couldn’t care less. I’m going.”

“You can go if you want, but only if you follow the rules. No probable cause, no entry. If you get probable cause, we get a search warrant. There’s no police presence on the island, so there’s practically no one to bail you out. Well, Devit and Jas are there, but I wouldn’t put your fate in their hands. If you somehow have eyes on the victims,” Wisely gripped his arm, “you call someone, wait for Tyki and Kanda, sit on your ass. They have gear and training to handle this; you do not. We clear?”

  
“Of course,” Allen replied through crooked teeth. 

* * *

**Sorry for the long wait! xx**

 


	7. Meeting a Fake Cousin, Who's Actually a Murderer

A boat ticket for 8:24 A.M. lay crumpled between his clenched knuckles. He watched waves lap at the hull of the boat, which calmly brushed the metal and melting back to the sea. A handful of people chose their seats aboard, but the dismal sky and grey water didn’t draw in too many tourists. Polite conversations shared between others attempted to fill the silence, but Allen felt surrounded by the gaps between sentences.

He hadn’t had a thought unshared or moment uncommented by Nea in what felt like years. He felt almost like an abandoned child again, alone amidst cloudy weather on stone church steps. An old church on the outskirts of London was where he, age ten, should’ve met foster family number six. Instead, he mudded his one nice outfit and had to jump to use the payphone to line foster family number five. Family number five immediately told him to call the police for a lift, since they wanted nothing to do with his “curse of rotten luck”. So he did.

Allen wondered if someone could be cursed with rotten luck or simply cursed with coincidences.

“...irst time to the islands?”

The words shattered his daydream. He noticed the pair of women standing next to him, leaned against railing. Arms crossed and nearly taller than the boat, a woman with the skin and chiseled muscles of a terracotta soldier seemed to be watching him. She styled her hair by shaving it clean off. When Allen’s eyes finally climbed their way up to hers, she smiled faintly with the right corner of her mouth, earrings jangling with the slight movement.

“You don’t waste words, I see,” the first speaker replied, a small laugh escaping as Allen grew embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I was,” Allen’s head nearly tipped back as he looked back up at the woman, “distracted. This is my first time to the islands.”

“Mahoja,” the woman tittered as Allen’s reaction amused her, “she’s a good friend of mine, and I promised I’d take her to see these islands.”

“Rather dreadful day for it, though,” Allen replied as he shook Mahoja’s hand.

He expected her grip to pop a few bones out of place, but was met with warmth despite callouses.

“Oh, excuse my manners. I’m Allen,” he added.

“That is what your laminate says, hanging out of your coat. I’m Annie, for today at least,” the woman replied with a wink, her golden hair accessories swaying as she tilted her head.

It didn’t take a detective to realize this woman’s name wasn’t Annie, but he didn’t question her motives. She purposefully introduced herself, and purposefully misnamed herself. Allen wasn’t quite sure what to make of Annie, hiding behind long black strands of hair and a thin smile.

The boat engine roared beneath them and began to kick up water and foam as they slowly left the dock. Onshore, Wisely gave a nervous wave, disappearing into the fog within seconds.

About three feet away from the hull of the boat was dense fog, as if they were speeding into the shores of limbo or an otherworldly gate. Dark water rushed past the stained boat, spraying up and disappearing into the grey. Allen wondered if they should even be sailing in this little visibility.

“Are you on your way to the island on account of the murders on TV?” Annie asked with almost mock fear, forming the “T” and “V” with hooked lips.

Allen looked around to see if any other passengers were listening, only to find that they were the only three on deck.

“Something like that,” he finally replied.

“Can’t compromise the case to a stranger you meet on a boat?” Mahoja said.

Allen nodded. “Definitely something like that.”

Mahoja laughed straight from the stomach. She pointed out a dolphin keeping pace over the left side of the boat, and Allen ran over to watch. He could make out the dorsal fin, slippery and sleek as it cut through the water and fog.

“Do you think coincidences bring people together, or is it something more, Walker? Fate?” Annie shouted over the engine, braiding three small locks of hair.

Allen looked back at her in confusion, not quite able to hear her voice. “What?”

Her voice was soft in his ear, as if someone held a megaphone to his ear but only whispered, “By the time you catch your killer, the tightrope you walk between ghosts and the living will snap. And you will have to choose which side you wish to live on.”

A foghorn snapped his eyes wide open. Allen inhaled and exhaled frantically before realizing he’d fallen asleep before the boat had left. A dream, all of it, with strange characters and stranger questions.

“Time to disembark, sleepyhead!”

* * *

The fog lifted only slightly in the time he’d been asleep and still clung to the water and boats like wads of grey gum. However, the grey sky could only mask so much of the island’s beauty; the rolling green fields peeked out, perfectly cut into squares by the lattice of patchwork stone walls. His boots nearly slid on the lacquered wood of the dock, painted a stark white against the onyx cliffs of the island. He assumed it made it easy to find on foggy days like this.

“Hey, Nea, where do you think--” Allen stopped mid-sentence, head still slightly tilted over his shoulder, finger brushed against his lip.

Nea wouldn’t know, anyway, he told himself in what he knew was childish reassurance.

He pushed up his threadbare sleeves and straightened his back before following the dock to where it emptied into a dirt path. Allen remembered there wasn’t a guarda force, much less a car, on the islands. Off to the left was a small car park, and even closer was a bike rental shop. A bike would do.

The tiny bell of the shop door made Allen jump as he entered, and he only then realized how tense his shoulders were. The owner of the shop waved to him.

“You have a destination in mind, or are ye’ just sightseein?”

“Kilronan, I believe,” Allen said while rolling his shoulders.

“Kilronan? Jus’ up the main street aways’, make no turns and ye’ won’t miss it. Ye’ got kin ‘ere?” The shopkeeper asked as Allen paid.

“Yeah, mhm,” Allen replied absently, accepting the change.

“Aw, who? I bet I know ‘em!”

Allen looked up from the change and then noticed the question upon him. He met the older man’s face, like a dried red apple with two brown appleseeds, and realized this man probably knew every name in town.

Allen realized that the events of the earlier morning had put him in some kind of nervous sleepwalk. He needed to start acting like a cop and much less like a sleepy bartender, no matter what the truth actually was.

Allen said, “Sean Murphy? He’s an old cousin of mine I’ve been trying to--”

“‘Course I ‘new Sean Murphy! Bright young lad, one of the young ones raised on the islands who stayed on the islands.” The man beamed at Allen.

He braved his best smile, trying to not seem too interested. “Oh, really? I was so nervous to meet him! Do you,” he flipped through a pamphlet by the shop counter, “know anything else about him?”

The man rubbed his chin and replied, “The Murphy’s were always a private folk. Didn’t want to get involved in the community, just inherited some land on the islands and set up shop. But their kid, Sean, he became one of us as soon as his parents started goin’ on these extravagant vacations and leavin’ him to fend for ‘imself. Real involved in the church, the community. A downright good soul. I know he’s adopted, and they renamed ‘im Sean, so I hope that’s not who you think you’re related to,” he said with a guffaw.

Allen laughed with a little flutter of surprise. “Oh, of course not! He sounds great though, I can’t wait to meet him!”

They exchanged pleasantries and Allen mounted his bike, promising himself that it was impossible to forget how to ride one. That is, if he’d ever rode a bike before.

He silently wondered if Nea would’ve known how to ride a bike, or just made fun of his underprivileged childhood. Surely, it couldn’t be that difficult.

* * *

  
Allen was thankful for the fog, for only two strangely dressed teenagers burst out laughing when he went head over handlebars. It turns out that pedaling and speeding up were easy, but slowing down and stopping was another matter.

He could feel a nasty bruise forming on his forehead but still shot a glare at the pair laughing at him. They were dressed like they only shopped in the more depressing spaces of the mall, with matching black eyeliner he could see from across the road. One of them, in a twirl of blonde hair, fell into the grass from laughter.

“Yeah, yeah,” Allen muttered, brushing debris off himself and picking up the bike.

It turned out most of the “towns” on the Aran Islands were basically neighborhoods surrounded by uninhabited land. Kilronan was only made up of a few streets, maybe twenty houses, uphill from the docks. As Allen walked the bike uphill and let the embarrassment wash off, he realized he had no idea what he was doing nor who he was trying to find. This wasn’t easy, all by himself, and he had no one to call to ease the loneliness.

A man with dark hair tied back rose out of the fog and offered him a hand. “Hey, ye’ alight there? That was a nasty fall you took. You'ere barreling up that hill like you ‘ere on an unmastered horse!” 

Silently cursing the good natured town, Allen attempted to hide his new welt behind his bangs. He smiled at the other while brushing stray dirt and grass off his chest.

“Oh, I’m fine, really! They say you can’t forget how to ride a bike, after all,” Allen said.

The pair across the street were still in a mad fit of laughter, and the man grabbed him by the shoulder warmly. He had broad shoulders and far more base strength than Allen, even though they were the same height. “Don’t mind them. Outsiders seem to have lost their kindness these days. Come by my house and we’ll get that wound cleaned out, right?”

Allen held his hands up in regress. “That seems a bit much for a small fall, but thank you for your kindness.”

“Nonsense! You’re bleeding,” the man rubbed a thumb across Allen’s forehead and swiped a small amount of red, “it’ll only take a moment and save you an infection. My home’s right where you ‘ere headed anyhow.”

Realizing he couldn’t escape this hospitality, Allen decided it would be a good way to ask more about Sean, at least.

“You’ve convinced me, stranger. Thank you,” Allen said, offering a hand out.

The man shook it in a firm but friendly manner and led Allen up the street.

* * *

Allen waited in the man’s kitchen, silently perched on a wooden chair that seemed handmade. The kitchen was dated but obscenely clean, reminding him of the mountain of laundry and dishes waiting for him at home. The room smelled of fresh herbs, particularly rosemary, left drying on the windowsill above the sink. The wooden cabinets above yellow laminate counters were lacquered and had detailed, yellow handles. He could only imagine a room like this belonging to some tiny elf.

“Found it!” the man called out from above him, thundering down the stairs at the mouth of the kitchen.

He plopped a worn, black toolbox onto the counter, which apparently served as his first aid kit. It contained a mix of supplies: a handful of fishing lures, thumbtacks, a screwdriver, three bandaids. But most importantly, rubbing alcohol stashed in the bottom.

“Sorry for the hassle,” Allen said while picking at the stray threads of his jacket sleeve.

“Nonsense,” the man said as he fished through the toolbox.

He found what he was looking for, stray cotton balls, and poured some alcohol onto the puffy spheres, turning one into a dampened cloud. Allen lifted up his bangs and winced as the bite of alcohol seeped into the cut.

“What brings ye’ out to the islands on a day this drab?” He asked, gently dabbing the wound.

“I’m hoping to meet my cousin, actually,” Allen replied, looking up at him curiously. “Do you know Sean Murphy?”

The man immediately came to attention, in the way someone does when their name is spoken while they aren’t paying attention. Allen knew the words the man was about to say, and hopelessly wished he was in the middle of an elaborate Lavi prank. He felt his throat close tightly around his airway, and the scent of rubbing alcohol clawing at his nostrils. His silver eyes, unblinking, met the dark eyes of his Entomber.

“Well, fate sure has a funny way of sorting things out!”

He began mentally pleading to God, Nea, or whoever was listening. _Please, please don’t let him say..._

“I’m Sean Murphy! Although, you’re probably related to the Murphys’ more than me. They adopted me, see, I was born in China…”

Allen tuned out the man’s voice and studied his face. Warm features, with a soft, rounded face but high cheekbones. He felt the man’s hand slowly dab at his wound as if caring for a small, wounded bird. His eyes, most of all, held a brightness, like a spark of electricity at 2:00 A.M. on a summer night.

This couldn’t be the face of a killer. The touch of a killer. The kitchen of a killer. Surely, surely, they had made a mistake in their reasoning.

“...and my birth given name is Chaoji, but my mum wanted the name Sean, so I….”

Allen realized how easily this man led him into his home, and how easily he could soil his clean kitchen by knocking Allen’s head clean open. He wondered if the Entomber had followed the case, reliving the murders through their investigation. He wondered, most of all, if this man knew Allen’s name and occupation even before approaching him.

“You okay? You’ve gone a few shades paler than 'yer hair in the past few moments,” Sean said, eyeing him with what seemed like honest concern.

Allen realized he’d been staring, wide-eyed at the checkerboard tablecloth for the past few moments.

“Fine,” Allen said hoarsely, attempting to clear his throat but only making his throat feel like there was a penny stuck in his airway.

He desperately wished for Nea’s advice on what to do, but was met with mental static. He wondered if Nea was really gone. This thought made his stomach churn with both anger, grief, and another emotion he couldn't quite place. Allen decided not to dissect his emotions towards Nea, as Chaoji stared at him with concern.

“I mean,” Allen looked up at Chaoji but couldn't make eye contact, “it’s a lot of emotions at once, meeting my cousin for the first time. You said your real name was Chaoji?”

He nodded, and began a long spiel on why his parents renamed him, but he preferred his birth name. Allen carefully inhaled, then exhaled, as he readied his best attempt at a "Meeting a Fake Cousin, Who's Actually a Murderer" poker face.

“I’ll call you Chaoji, then, if it’s what you prefer! I was adopted, too, and although we aren’t related by blood, family shouldn’t be strangers,” Allen said and his eyes almost painfully pinched closed as he smiled.

“Sorted, then! Listen, I’m right glad you tracked me, but I ‘as on my way over to tend to my livestock. We own some land on the other island, you see, and-”

“Oh, that’s fine! It’s me who dropped in unannounced! While you take care of your,” Allen faltered when he grasped the meaning of his words, “livestock. While you take care--”

“You can go sightseeing and meet me back here at thirteen hundred ‘or lunch!” Chaoji finished while sticking a band-aid firmly on Allen’s forehead.

Allen responded while staring at the tablecloth again, unable to meet the other’s eyes. “Proper.”

Chaoji left Allen on the porch, waving from a bike as he sped down the steep hill towards the docks. Allen felt his hand wave back like a marionette doll, and he hopelessly wished for someone’s guidance. Anyone to tell him what to do or how to handle his current situation. However, his cellphone, Nea, even the grey sky, simply silently watched and waited.

* * *

**I'm so sorry for the long wait! School's been killer and so has my health ;;. Hopefully over the summer I can dish out a bunch of chapters to make up for the wait! LMK what you think :)**


	8. The Author isn't Dead, and Wants to Say Sorry

 

Allen stood on the porch in silence for a few moments. He looked up at the sky, a flat sheet of grey much deeper in color than his eyes. The sky seemed to hold back on raining, as if waiting for the perfect moment to unleash waves of rain. A thought bubbled up from the silence, the quiet panic in his brain coming to a single conclusion.

He didn’t know what to do, how to handle this, or who to ask for help. He felt miserably scared, like a young child who lost sight of a parent in a department store and the panicked search that followed. Except there wasn’t someone just as panicked searching for him, there was only a gloomy sky and silence.

Allen looked over his jacket without much thought, then cursed himself as he only met the front door. The door had a welcome mat with a cartoon cow, with “Welco-mooin!” written above it’s smiling face. He glared at the mat.

“You’re a right useless ghost, haunting me only when I don’t need you,” Allen muttered while he felt for his phone through his jacket.

He blinked a few times when he heard his own words. Allen added in a hasty defiant tone, “Not that I need you. I’m perfectly fine. Proper, even.”

Allen started to pace on the stone porch while fiddling with the phone charm attached to his flip-phone in his pocket. He stopped, and realized he only had one choice: to follow the Entomber.

His stomach churned its contents like butter. He imagined Nea in this situation, who would have probably yelled at him with semi-violent hand gestures. Nea would have insisted on him not to go, which fueled him further.

However, he would need to know which island that Chaoji went to.

Allen stopped pacing and pulled out his phone. He called Fou.

Fou answered, “Walker, what’s botherin’ ‘ya? Get any good dirt on our guy?”

She talked in slow phrases and paused between them as if she had to think hard before speaking. Allen knew she probably hadn’t slept in a while. He wondered if Lenalee would let someone, even him, watch the desk so that the poor woman could sleep.

Allen responded, “Sorry to bother. Do you think you could see if we have any records on Sean Murphy?”

“Records, like criminal records, or just general,” she paused to yawn, “general stuff. Wait, do I have permission from Wisely to go through the record department’s computer?”

“General stuff, like adoption records and the like. And,” Allen stopped and pondered the amount of trouble he could get in for not asking Wisely.

Fou said, “Why don’t ye just ask ‘im? He’s right by you, isn’t he?”

Allen chewed on his lip. “He’s interviewing someone right now and I don’t want to bother him.”

A pause. “Eh, the most I’ll get is a slap on the wrist for touching Wisely’s computer. It’s not like we’re opening the lad’s criminal file. I’m walkin’ down to the records hall now.”

“Thank you, Fou,” Allen said.

After silence, he heard the beep of her identification card unlocking the door, followed by the soft clicking of a keyboard.

“I got the adoption forms ‘ight ‘ere. What do you need, again?” Fou said.

“Can you also see if there are any deeds, like land that he owns?” Allen said.

“Stupid mouse,” Fou muttered and Allen heard her clicking repeatedly. “Why do we call them a mouse, anyways? Well, I guess if you squint it kinda looks like-”

Allen worried for her sleep deprived sanity.

Fou continued, “Ah-ha! No, wait, nothing. He doesn’t have any records past a birth certificate and adoption records. Sorry to waste yer-" 

Allen said, “The parents names, on the birth certificate. Can you check if they own any land on the Aran Islands?”

“Yer a smart lad. Let’s see,” Fou trailed off and he heard more violent clicking of the mouse.

“How does Wisely use this thing? Surely our budget cuts aren’t-” Fou said but stopped to yawn.

“Fou, you have to start sleeping-” Allen replied, but caught her yawn and stopped mid-sentence. 

Fou laughed. “You too. Yeah, the mom has a house on the main island and some farmland on Inishmaan. What did ya need this for, anyhow?”

Allen realized he should’ve been walking towards the dock this whole time and inwardly cursed himself, again. He glanced at the bike, then shivered and shook his head at the mental image of him losing control and sailing off the dock into open water. Walking it is.

“Allen?”

“Just following a lead, nothing interesting yet. Thank you for finding that,” Allen responded in a quiet voice.

He had a feeling in his chest like a python squeezing his heart and sand filling his lungs. If he could believe he was just following a lead, maybe the heavy feeling would disappear, too.

“No sweat, Allen! But bummer, make sure to call when something interesting happens! And stay safe, ya know?”

They exchanged goodbyes.

The dock was in sight now, and he checked his wallet to see if he had enough to ferry to another island. Just enough, if he used a few coins, and he silently thanked whatever deity decided not to shit on him today. He also wondered if having enough money to chase a serial killer was really good luck.

As he paid the ferryman, his phone began to vibrate within his coat pocket. He pulled out the flip phone with hopes that Fou had somehow gathered more information on Chaoji. Any information that would ease his fears before stumbling into a serial killer’s base of operation. Much like stepping in between the jaws of a hungry shark and politely asking the fish not to eat him.

The front screen lit up with “Caller ID: Kanda”. Underneath that, in small print, “Voicemail: (3)”.

Allen felt a horrible sense of dread throughout his body, like the python in his chest bit into his heart, and the snake’s poison spread through his bloodstream.

“Call from an ex-girlfriend?”

Allen continued to look at the phone screen, then looked up at the ferryman. “Pardon?”

The man laughed as if he was expelling heavy clouds of smoke. “ I asked if it was a call from yer ex-girlfriend. ‘Yer face fell faster than a greased pig on rollerskates.”

Allen laughed politely, and then responded, “No, nothing like that. Just a call from a very difficult coworker.”

The ferryman seemed disappointed. Allen realized the phone had stopped ringing, but he was sure a loud and searing voicemail was in progress.

He boarded the boat, which was barely a step up from a canoe and oars. The boat did have an electric motor, which Allen was grateful for.

“Just going to be you and ol’ Charon today, lad. Not much tourism on rainy days like this,” the ferryman said.

Allen flipped open his phone and thumbed through the menu options. He could just delete the voicemails and blame the wavering cell service. Curiosity got the better of him.

He brought the phone up to his ear as the boat began to take off. He absently picked at the chipped, grey paint off the wooden banister as he listened to the voicemail.

_“Bartender, where are you two? Wisely said you guys were on the way to pick us up.  Let me guess, you’re driving and you probably drive the speed limit. Scratch that, you probably drive like a soccer mom who-”_

Allen rolled his eyes and deleted the first voicemail without listening to the rest of Kanda’s insults. He noticed the second voicemail was only five minutes after that one, so he deleted that one as well.

The island wasn’t far from the main island, but the fog shrouded the boat in a cloud of grey. Allen noticed that it had grown quiet, save for the hum of the motor and a faint whistling from the ferryman. He couldn’t figure out how the man knew where to go in this fog, but decided to let that mystery stay unsolved.

He thumbed over to the most recent voicemail from Kanda and held the phone slightly away from his ear in preparation.

“Hiya Allen, it’s Tyki. Kanda can’t come to the phone right now because he’s, well, have a listen.”

Allen listened to the faint belligerent yelling in the background of the voicemail and rubbed the back of his neck. Tyki’s voice picked back up.

“Please, pretty please, don’t tell me you’re doing something stupid right now. We’re on a ferry over to Inishmore, but a little birdie told me you’re headed to Inishmaan. Fou may be sleep deprived, but she is no country bumpkin. I’d be incredibly pleased, no, _delighted_ if you would just wait for us on the dock.”

There was something threatening behind the way Tyki said delighted, and Allen considered waiting for Kanda, Tyki, and Wisely. At least, he considered it for half a second.

He heard Tyki audibly sigh over the voicemail, a sigh that sounded like a long exhale from a cigarette. “There’s no stopping you, is there? Walker-”

Tyki’s voice paused, followed by someone muffling the speaker as if they were fighting to hold on to the phone. Kanda’s irate yelling picked up.

“Jesus Christ, Walker, is this some sort of savior moment for you? You think you’re going to do anything but get killed? You-”

The voicemail cut off. Allen still held the phone to his ear, listening to the silence. He began picking paint chips off with his thumb again, staring into the black waves.

* * *

**I am SO sorry y'all!!!!! My life has been a disaster for a couple of months but I want to tell this story. And I will. I'm in a much better situation and hopefully will be able to finish this fic. I know this is short but I feel like if I don't post anything soon then I'll never work on this again. Thank you all so much for the nice reviews, they make my day.**


	9. Is it Possible to be Innocent and Guilty?

Allen disembarked on the disheveled dock of Inishmaan, an island home to about 200 residents. A few shops and pubs gathered near the dock, and Allen asked around about Chaoji’s land. Everyone he spoke to lit up at the mention of Sean Murphy, and talked about him with great warmth and pride as if he were their son.

A pub owner described an old church on Chaoji’s property, even drew Allen a map on a spare napkin. The owner said Sean was fixing up the church in his spare time, and that Sean and he should stop in for a pint after, tell him how restoration was going. Allen could only muster up weak agreement, unable to make eye contact with the owner. 

Allen tried not to think much about anything as he trekked across the island. The fog cleared as he jogged the route of the napkin map, leaving behind an eerie, grey sky with slivers of sunlight. 

He caught sight of the church, a modest grey stone structure with a single steeple, about 200 feet away.

* * *

Allen first peered through a window and saw no one inside, simply empty pews. However, he noticed a stairwell inside the church that probably led to a basement. He entered the church, slowly letting the door shut behind him as to not make a noise.

The light through the stained glass painted the door to the basement pomegranate red, the juice staining the pews and podium maroon. Candles flickered and thrived from the lack of electricity on the six stone window sills, three on each wall. The room reeked of sulfur, of rotten meat and dingy towels left in the wash too long. His nose burned like horseradish caught in the throat.

This was no longer a holy space.

The basement door, old driftwood pieced together, seemed too much like a closed casket. Allen imagined Nea telling him, in a pandering voice, “Do I need to explain the 87 reasons you should not open that door?”

However, Allen also imagined a shakiness to that voice, when someone attempts to make light of a hideous situation and properly fails. But he was the one who trembled, and Nea was not going to answer.

A bang rang through the church, barely muffled by the basement door. It was not the bang of a gunshot, nor scream of fireworks. The noise was someone hitting hollow metal, a steel drum perhaps, followed by silence returning.

Allen stepped down the center aisle, blood-red illuminated pews on either side of him. He took a left at the podium, caked with dust and grime, and found himself atop the stairwell leading down to the basement. He took a single step down, then stopped when he realized that he was about to bring not even a knife to a gunfight.

Allen looked around the church until his eyes fell on a candelabra on the podium. Without a sound, he returned for the weapon. The dull gold paint was caked with a centimeter of dust, but it had a heavy base. He practiced swinging the candelabra with his hands clenched around the candlesticks. Mid-swing, he realized his eyes were clenched closed and the sweat on his palms nearly made the weapon slip through his fingers.

He’d never fought anyone, besides scuffles with foster siblings. Never even held a gun. Kanda’s words rang in his head again, and Allen wondered if this really was just an ego trip that ended in his death. Bitter tears formed in the corners of his eyes, and he set the candelabra down on the podium. 

Allen stared at the dust now caked on his hands, eyes blurry from tears. He took a deep breath and wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve. He quietly said, “Nea?”

He stopped to clear his throat then continued, “Hey, Nea, if you’re there, I’m sorry for what I said. Truly. I just can’t stand by when those kids, I mean, what am I supposed to do? And maybe this an ego trip, but if it is, why do my hands shake like this?”

The church stayed quiet and somber like a funeral for a loved one who died unexpected and unannounced. Allen hesitantly repeated Nea’s name.

Silence.

“Stupid, I’m so bloody stupid,” Allen whispered.

A hissing, as if a million rattlesnakes lay just beyond the door, broke the silence of the church. Without thinking, Allen edged down the stairs with the sound to mask his steps, and the closer he came to the door, the more the sound took shape and form. Not rattlesnakes, but the sound resembled someone pouring cat litter. Allen’s eyes widened and a rush of adrenaline coursed through his body. It was the sound of someone making cement.

The fear clenched tightly around his throat, but his body made the split-second decision of fight over flight. He opened the door and the harsh noise hid the creak of the old wooden door. Allen quickly assessed the basement: there were two chambers, the sound flooded from one room farther in through a narrow hallway. A lantern light, Allen assumed from the dim orange glow, illuminated the room farther away. The chamber that he stood in held barely any light.

The noise in the farther room stopped like someone pulled the emergency brake, and Allen froze in place.

He looked around the room for a hiding place as his eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. The room looked bare, except for a wooden table to his left covered in bags of sand, limestone pieces and the like. A knife the size of Allen’s forearm lay on the table, and Allen stared at it with a somber, hardened expression.

Allen put his hand on the handle of the knife, lost in conflicting thoughts. A noise, from the far end of the room he was in, pulled him back to reality and he felt tense in every muscle in his body. His eyes had adjusted more to the lack of light, and he could make out an old radiator on the wall to his right. Allen squinted, because the shape of the radiator seemed to shift slightly.

It seemed that Chaoji hadn’t heard Allen’s approach, for new noise erupted out of the other room. Chaoji was definitely hammering something, probably limestone. Allen used the noise to approach the radiator slowly, leaving behind the knife without a thought. The shape, which only took a few steps forward to recognize, was a cowering child tied with rope to the radiator.

Allen crouched down until he was at eye level with the child, brown hair coated in grease and cheeks puffy and tearstained. He met the girl’s eyes, so full of terror and fright, and Allen held a finger over his lips. She stared at him for a moment before nodding, and Allen saw tears forming in her eyes. The rope was tied so tight that when Allen shifted it slightly, the girl flinched but did not speak. Between the gaps of the rope he saw where she had rubbed the skin raw trying to free herself. Allen looked at her with concern, but she fiercely nodded again, her eyes now filled with hope. He noticed that her eyes were a bright green like absinthe, which resembled the child’s eyes on the bridge.

_Why didn’t I notice the color of her eyes earlier?_ Allen wondered.

The child’s eyes no longer looked at him, but to the right, and the horror in her gaze returned. She started to frantically struggle against the rope.

Allen realized the answer to his question, and his hands began to tremble once again. Light: light was the reason he could see the color of his eyes. And there was only one reason light would appear in the same room as him.

He almost felt too much terror to look, but he did; Chaoji stood at the mouth of the hallway. Chaoji held the lantern out further, as if he wanted to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Allen’s entire body froze, almost as if his body stopped circulating blood.

Chaoji put the lantern down on the table and picked up the knife in a mundane way, like he was making a sandwich or filling out paperwork. He made eye contact with Allen while casually gripping the knife.

“Chaoji, wait just a moment! I’m sure,” Allen’s voice trembled, “this is a misunderstanding, right, cousin? We can talk this through!”

Chaoji didn’t respond, didn’t seem to register Allen’s voice. Allen noticed that Chaoji’s eyes were strange; it looked as if he’d used black ink for eye drops. As Chaoji approached the pair, Allen noticed a strange shadow that surrounded the man, like the vapor off of dry ice, but in hues of indigo and deep purple.

“Chaoji? Can you hear me?” Allen asked.

The man towered over the pair, the knife a few inches away from Allen’s nose.

In this moment, Allen realized two things.

One, that he was going to die. The reason Chaoji would mercilessly stab him like a seamstress’ pincushion was because he didn’t pick the knife off the table. If he had, he would have freed the girl in seconds and they both would have escaped. And if Nea had been there--if he hadn’t driven Nea away--Nea definitely would have told him to pick up the knife. It felt surreal, as if he’d chosen the bad ending to a video game, the screen soon to cut to _game over_ written over a black background.

Two, Chaoji was no longer Chaoji. Allen remembered that Tyki described Nea as a dark shadow around Allen’s figure. Allen didn’t know the logistics of it, but _possessed_ was the best word he could use to describe Chaoji’s state right now. It didn’t matter, of course, because he was about to die, but Allen wondered how they would prosecute a ghost.

Maybe they’d chased an innocent man. Maybe they would never catch him.

Maybe, even, they’d find Allen’s body as a cement angel somewhere around town.

Allen had a desperate, last-ditch thought. _Once a person succumbs to their ghost, can they return to their body?_

“I know you’re in there, Chaoji, somewhere,” Allen said while biting his lip, “and I know you don’t want to do this. For this girls’ sake, fight back!”

Chaoji lunged forward with the knife. Allen flinched, closed his eyes, and held his arms in front of chest in an X. An hour seemed to pass in the span of a second. He wondered if the adrenaline was blocking the pain, and opened his eyes. Chaoji missed, with the knife a hair’s length away from Allen’s neck. _He missed?_

Allen looked up and saw the turmoil in Chaoji’s eyes, both rage and despair coexisting. The flames of violet and indigo that surrounded Chaoji seemed to dissipate as if someone turned a gas stovetop from high to low. The knife lurched forward again, but the possessed body moved as if it just downed ten shots of vodka. Allen winced as the blade slightly brushed his cheek after a few more drunken stabs.

The body’s eyes grew dark once more, and Allen saw the veil of shadow returning. Allen didn’t have another plan nor escape route; if he moved or tried to escape, Chaoji would end up stabbing the child.

Chaoji reared the knife back with precision this time, and Allen knew that he would not need to strike again after this. Allen’s thoughts were blank and his pulse evened out. Regret bubbled up that his last words to Nea were spoken in anger, but maybe Nea knew it was time to jump ship anyways. The calmness of acceptance washed over him, and he closed his eyes.

The basement door burst open, a forceful kick from the other side. Chaoji’s arm hesitated as he looked over at the commotion. Allen eyed the new figure that rushed through the opening: long dark hair tied back, police uniform, and a fierce scowl. Kanda took less than a second to assess the situation. He immediately reached for the taser on his belt, flipped the safety off, and pointed it at Chaoji. A red laser light appeared on Chaoji’s chest.

“Drop the knife, hands behind your head,” Kanda said in an even, stern tone.

Chaoji gave Kanda a nonchalant glance, almost completely dead in the eyes.

“I’m not going to say it again, bastard!” Kanda shouted.

And Kanda didn’t; he fired the taser directly at Chaoji’s chest. Allen saw the probes from the taser attach to Chaoji’s shirt, saw them spark in the dim room. Chaoji continued to stand there, but he gripped the knife so tightly that his knuckles went white.

“What the fuck,” Kanda said while pulling the trigger a few more times.

Chaoji used his free hand to pull the wires from his chest, still sparking with electricity, then glared at Kanda. He yanked on the wires and pulled the taser out of Kanda’s hand. It landed on the floor near Chaoji, and he picked the weapon up.

Chaoji stared at the taser for a moment, then lunged toward Kanda. Kanda reached for the mace on his belt, but fumbled while unclipping it. Chaoji thrust the taser against Kanda’s stomach, and Kanda slumped against the wall. He fell unconscious within seconds. The officer slid to the floor like a sack of potatoes, and Chaoji tossed the taser aside. He still gripped the knife with the same anger as before, but this time focused on Kanda’s defenseless body. 

Allen didn’t have time to think; he rushed over to Kanda and sat in front of him, with his back against Kanda’s unconscious chest.

“Chaoji, please, fight back!” Allen cried out. 

Chaoji’s eyes were full of untamed rage and he didn’t seem fazed in the slightest by Allen’s words. The knife plunged forward, headed directly for the center of Allen’s chest. Allen acted on instinct rather than thought; he grabbed the knife with both of his hands. His gloves shredded almost instantly and the knife ripped into his palms. Allen’s vision began to cloud with tears, and he bit his bottom lip open. The knife dug deeper into his flesh as Chaoji put more force on it, inching closer to Allen’s chest. Steady drops of blood fell from his hands to the dirt floor.

Allen had never felt this much raw terror, and it wasn’t because he was afraid to die. Some part of him knew that this mission had been a deathwish, but his stubbornness masked that until now. This was the terror of sweat-soaked clothes after a nightmare, of not seeing a car in the blindspot on the interstate, of waking up in old age and realizing the life was wasted. He imagined that drowning felt a lot like this.

“God, Nea, anyone,” Allen screamed, “Please, please don’t let everyone die for my naivety!”

Allen couldn’t hold the knife back any longer, unless he wanted to sever his hands in half.

_Let go. I’ll take care of this._

Allen looked around in disbelief and wondered if he’d lost enough blood to start hearing voices.

“Nea?” Allen said, his voice cracked and stifled.

_Allen, let go._

He nodded, and removed his hands from the knife. His eyes snapped shut and he braced for his death. A few moments of unbroken silence passed. Allen opened his eyes and saw Chaoji frozen in place like a live statue, arm muscles tensing as he attempted to drive the knife through Allen’s chest. 

Chaoji abruptly flew backward as if a boxer had sucker-punched him in the gut. His back hit the wall in the other room, which Allen only knew from the deafening thud in the darkness. Allen blinked a few times, his mouth hung slightly open, a finger pointed in the direction Chaoji was thrown.

“Did you just, I mean,” Allen looked around for Nea but couldn’t see him, “was that an act of God or did you--”

Nea’s voice cut him off. _Pick up the taser, the lantern, and the handcuffs from Kanda’s belt._

Allen followed the instructions and fumbled to get the handcuffs with his injured hands. He took all the items to where Chaoji landed and eyed the body nervously.

_That blow won’t keep him out for long; use the short range function on the taser to buy yourself some more time. Find something to handcuff him to._

“But the taser didn’t work last time,” Allen replied.

_You don’t have time for me to explain why this will work--just trust me._

Allen realized that if Nea knew that the taser hadn’t worked, that meant he had been with Allen the whole time. Which also meant he almost let him die earlier. Allen shoved these thoughts away until he could properly speak to Nea. 

Allen looked away as he used the taser, counting to five and then pulling it away. He eyed the room for something to handcuff Chaoji to. His eyes fell on a giant circular stove, with metal supports thin enough to close the handcuff around.

_The kiln is perfect because it’s so heavy, but hurry up. I don’t have enough energy to defend you again._

Allen wondered what Nea meant by that, but swallowed that question as well. He dragged Chaoji’s arm close enough to handcuff him. Allen’s hands spilled blood on just about everything he had touched, from Chaoji’s arm to the taser. The crime scene analysis team was probably going to lose their mind on him from all the extra blood work to process.

Allen remembered Kanda, unconscious, tased Kanda, and darted back into the first room with the lantern in tow. Allen sat down on his knees in front of Kanda and used two fingers to the other’s neck to check his pulse, failing to notice the blood that dripped from his hand on Kanda’s uniform. Kanda abruptly awoke like a shot of epinephrine, his eyes wide and muscles tense. He immediately grabbed Allen’s hand near his throat, and if Allen didn’t know any better, Kanda intended to break it.

“Hey! It’s me!” Allen yelped.

Kanda blinked, looked around the dingy basement, then slowly let go of Allen’s hand. He took a few more moments to look around before slightly relaxing.

“Where is the Entomber?” Kanda asked.

“Handcuffed, unconscious, in the other room,” Allen replied. “Are you okay?”

“Why didn’t my taser--,” Kanda noticed Allen’s hands mid-sentence, “what the fuck did you do, grab a knife by the blade? Jesus!”

Kanda grabbed Allen’s right hand and took the glove off. He inspected the cut while scowling, then took the torn glove and tied it tight against the wound. Allen attempted to protest before he took off the left glove, but Kanda ignored him and tied it as tight as possible. He didn’t comment on the bandages wrapped around every inch of Allen’s left hand.

Kanda clasped Allen’s hands between his palms and pressed on the wounds. Allen winced at the pain finally setting in.

“What the hell happened, bartender? And why the ever-loving fuck did you come down here alone? And, yes, I do need to keep this much pressure on your hands, so deal with it, unless you want to pass out,” Kanda said.

“I, well, he tased you, and,” Allen felt tears starting to well up, “he tased you, and he was going to kill you, and, God, I didn’t know what to do, I mean, the only bloody training I’ve received is how to copy Lavi’s signature! I know I was a proper idiot to grab a knife, I just didn’t want you to die for my sake!”

He felt incredibly embarrassed and pissed off that he was on the verge of sobbing in front of Kanda. Of all people. He pried his hands free from Kanda’s to angrily wipe his eyes on his sleeve, for he couldn’t even see Kanda’s face at this point. Allen sniffled and attempted to regain his composure. 

Kanda had a strange expression on his face, an expression Allen didn’t expect someone to have after hearing they were almost stabbed. Kanda appeared stoic, bordering on looking bored, but there was something he was masking. It reminded Allen of when someone received socks for Christmas, and their face falls, just for a fraction of a second. Then they quickly hide the disappointment, smile, say _Thank you very much._

It was almost as if Kanda wanted to die here. But why?

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Kanda asked.

Allen countered, “Why did you come down here without Tyki or Wisely? And, on top of that, you wasted the element of surprise by barging through the door, and you went for your pepper spray instead of attempting to disarm Chaoji. Why?”

Allen looked at Kanda with concern, which seemed to slowly infuriate Kanda. Kanda’s eyebrows pinched together, and his eyes looked as though he might bite Allen’s throat out. 

“I could ask you the same fucking question, because even though everyone told you stay put, wait, oh, I don’t know, twenty minutes tops--you, a scrawny bartender, decided to play hero for the day. Congratulations, I hope the stitches, the nightmares, the nerve damage are worth the ten minutes of fame! And don’t ever fucking look at me like that again. Keep your pity to your goddamn self,” Kanda spat back.

Allen was unsure he had ever felt rage overtake him so suddenly, deeply; the kind of rage that allows humans to commit atrocities without a second thought.

Nea’s voice appeared in his head. _He’s not worth it, Allen. Let’s go home. Well, stitches, then home._

“You think,” Allen tried to take a deep breath, couldn’t, continued, “You think I did all of this to what, see my name published in some fucking newspaper? I-”

Allen stopped himself and nearly bit his tongue off. Nea was right. He stood up and headed for the basement door without another word.

“Oi, bartender! You can go find somewhere to pout and cry, but we have to file a joint report on this within 12 hours,” Kanda said as he stood up.

Nea commented. _Bastard, through and through._

Allen’s hand clenched the basement door handle. He could’ve said nothing, and the rational part of his brain urged him to do exactly that, urged him to keep walking forward and ignore Kanda, be the bigger person and the like bullshit. A strange, spiteful anger overtook Allen’s composure, and it didn’t feel like it wholly belonged to him.

He turned to face Kanda and gave his sweetest, molar-rotting smile. Allen fished something out of his pocket and put it in Kanda’s hand.

“The keys to my handcuffs?” Kanda asked flatly.

“Well, of course! I mean, you want to die so badly, but you can’t do it yourself, right? That’s why you came down here alone, why you purposefully let yourself nearly be murdered. Who am I to judge, though? Just trying to help out a fellow officer any way I can!” Allen replied cheerfully, with wide eyes full of hatred in a voice of pure innocence laced with spite.

Allen found it strange that Kanda didn’t respond with anger. He guessed that he’d crystallized a truth that Kanda hadn’t even admitted to himself. Worse, he’d taken one of the man’s darkest, unnameable secrets and left it out in the open air like roadkill. Kanda looked at him like he was unsure if Allen was being sarcastic, like he was waiting for Allen to take it back, _please, take it back_.

And Allen only responded with a crooked smile, satisfied with the hurt in Kanda’s eyes.

* * *

 Fourteen stitches--seven for each hand--later, Allen stood on his apartment doorstep and fumbled to fit the key in the lock due to a wad of bandages and gauze. It reminded him of when he first moved to the apartment, after the fire, but then he could just switch hands.

Maybe he fumbled on purpose; Nea would be inside. It’s not that he didn’t want to talk to him; Allen just hadn’t the slightest clue as to how to put his emotions to words. _I fucked up,_ _I’m sorry, thank you,_ seemed far too flimsy to convey how he felt.

_Maybe I’ll just stand here, on this step, forever,_ he thought.

A gust of wind blew straight through his threadbare coat, and he sighed. He decided that the longer he put off talking to him, the worse it would be. On top of that, it was too fucking cold to stand here afraid of something he couldn’t change.

Allen unlocked the door and wall of warm air was almost intoxicating. Nea laid on top of the covers with a file open in his lap, and a few others strewn on the bed.

“Hey,” Allen said quietly as he hung his jacket on the coat rack. 

“All stitched up?” Nea asked as he looked up from the file.

“All fourteen. But, of course, you were there, right?” Allen replied as he took off his boots.

When Nea didn’t respond, Allen quickly added, “Not that you have to be there all the time if you don’t want to be! I mean, you’re free to do what you want, of course. I don’t even need to say that! And I’m sure that the Emergency Room wouldn’t be that interesting. It was mostly a lot of waiting. Then stitches. Then more waiting.”

Nea smirked and responded, “You’re in rare form tonight. Afraid I’m going to skip town on you tonight, Walker?”

“I mean, you can if you ever want to, is all I’m saying. You’re always helping me with everything, and I’ve never thought to ask if maybe you don’t want to, or maybe there’s something you do want to do, and--”

Nea sighed, took off his reading glasses, and rubbed at his eyes. “Allen, you’re going to give me a migraine.”

Allen noticed how worn Nea looked, his skin paler than usual and his dark circles curving around his eyes like crescent bruises.

“Come lie down, would you? Unless you like standing by the door like that, but you look like you might keel over any moment,” Nea said.

Allen didn’t protest and laid down on top of the covers. He stared at the blank ceiling and let out his 100th sigh of the evening.

“You do realize you’re covered in blood, like at least a pint or two. And you still want to sell me that you patiently sat in the waiting room of the ER, waited your turn,” Nea said, almost amused enough to laugh.

Allen scowled and looked down at his clothes. The black fabric from his knee to his belt was still slightly wet, darker than the rest and faintly red. He didn’t care to comment on the state of his white shirt.

“I didn’t realize how bad it was until I got to the hospital,” Allen muttered.

Nea, on his side, propped his head up on his hand. “I can’t fathom how you made it to the ER without passing out. That bastard should’ve called for an airlift to a hospital as soon as he saw your hands. You could’ve died--honestly, you could be dead for all he knows! I’m willing to bet he hasn’t even bothered to call, has he?”

“The nurse said about the same thing. He hasn’t called, but I don’t blame him after that horrible thing I said. He could be dead, for all I know,” Allen said, and hid his face in his hands.

“Allen, you know he isn’t, he’s got way too much pride. He’ll probably end up the oldest human alive in spite of you now,” Nea fussed, “And I think you’re both even, in a terrible way, like two dictators who nuked each other until they were the last two people on a ruined earth.”

Allen peeked through his fingers to look at Nea, who gave him a curious look back. He sighed and closed his eyes, unable to ask Nea the one question burning a hole in his brain, for he was too afraid of the answer.

“I’m guessing that you probably want to know why I didn’t help you sooner, tell you to stop, or answer you, or even help you to the hospital,” Nea said.

Allen took his hands from his face and replied, “Can you read my thoughts, or am I just that easy to read?”

Nea laughed at this. “Sometimes I truly have no idea what you’re thinking, Allen. I would’ve pleaded with you to stay put, wait for the other officers, if it would’ve changed anything. If I thought I could’ve even slowed you down for five minutes, I would’ve tried it. 30 seconds, even, I would’ve settled for. As for what happened in the basement, well, that will take a moment to explain.”

Allen said, “I can understand if you wanted to teach me a lesson, or maybe you just wanted a break. You don’t even have to stick around, if you are tired of all of this, Nea,” he solemnly looked at Nea, “I want you to stay, but I’m guessing you didn’t ask for all this nonsense.”

Nea looked at Allen in surprise, wide eyes and his hand taken aback.

“What is it? You want to go, right? I don’t blame you, in the slightest,” Allen said.

“You’ve never,” Nea didn’t make eye contact when he spoke, “I mean, that I can remember, I’ve just been a nuisance to you. I mean, after the fire, you ignored me for months. And even when you stopped ignoring my presence, you definitely weren’t happy to have me around. I don’t know, you’ve never expressed that you wanted me around before this, ever.”

Allen opened his mouth, then shut it when he fumbled with what to say.  They both cautiously made eye contact, Nea’s gaze soft and affectionate.

“You don’t have to look so guilty, Al. It’s actually a really nice feeling,” Nea smiled slightly, “being wanted, belonging, that is. And you’re stuck with me, so you might as well get used to it!”

Allen grinned at this, then asked, “So what happened in the basement then, with the taser and everything? I definitely saw it go off, but Chaoji didn’t even flinch.”

Nea shrugged, replied, “No clue, honestly. But that taig, ghost, _thing_ attached to Chaoji was unlike any I’ve ever encountered. And the reason I couldn’t help you sooner,” Nea took Allen’s palm and traced the stitches through the gauze, “had to do with that ghost’s presence, and the fact that you were in that church. You see--”

There was a weak rap at the door, a single, hesitant knock.

“The wind, probably,” Allen said in hopes that he wouldn’t have to get up. “Keep going.”

A more forceful knocking followed.

“Kanda probably gave his report, which caused Lenalee to send someone here to see if you’re okay,” Nea said. “Better answer it before they start spiraling and end up breaking down the door with an ambulance to boot.” 

Allen glowered at the door for a moment before trudging over to his boots. He noticed he’d worn a hole through the right sole and scowled at it.

The knocking picked up again, and Allen rolled his eyes while he slipped on his boots. As he walked over to the door, the noise abruptly stopped. He desperately hoped that the person had given up, so that he didn’t have to go outside in the cold and slush.

Allen checked through the glass eye hole in the door and saw no one. He turned towards Nea and shrugged.

“Weird,” Nea said, “They knocked pretty frantically to just walk away. Hold on--”

Nea was squinting at the door and then his eyes widened. He pointed at the lock, which slowly turned, but it was too late. The door swung open, then caught fast on the deadbolts. The handle whacked Allen square in the back and knocked the wind out of him. It took him a few seconds to register where he was and what was going on. 

Nea, however, wasted no time and grabbed the pocket knife Allen kept in his bedside dresser. He tossed it over to Allen, who reluctantly caught it. Allen looked at the pocketknife, then Nea, then the knife once more. 

“You don’t have to use it, just scare them away!” Nea said. 

Allen nodded and took a deep breath in through the nose so that he could talk. He flipped the pocket knife open and peered through the small opening between the wall and the door.

“Oh, bloody fucking,” Allen gasped for air, then continued, “hell! Care to explain,” another deep breath, “yourself?”

Still in uniform with a lockpick kit balanced on his thigh, Kanda crouched at eye level with the lock. His hair was down from its usual uptight ponytail and cascaded down his shoulders and back. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and Allen guessed that he probably hadn’t. Kanda looked up at him with something that resembled actual worry.

“Did I hit you with the door or do you need medical attention?” Kanda asked.

“Did you hit me with the bloody,” Allen put a hand to his forehead and tried to remember how to breathe. “I don’t know, Kanda, did you _happen_ to hit me with,”

Kanda stood up and replied, “Well, you didn’t answer the knocks--” 

“Naturally, the next step when someone doesn’t answer,” Allen looked over at his alarm clock while taking a deep breath, “at 1:32 in the morning is to break out your trusty lockpick--”

“Can I speak with you for a moment? Preferably not through deadbolt chains,” Kanda said in a soft voice that almost sounded like it didn’t belong to him.

Allen took a few deep breaths, then unlooped the two deadbolts. Kanda stepped down from the stairs and Allen stepped outside. He shut the door behind him, even though he knew Nea would eavesdrop either way.

They were at eye level, for once, due to Allen’s perch on the stairs. Kanda looked like he was on the verge of saying something, but he noticed Allen’s bloodstained attire first.

“Fuck, that’s a lot of blood. Did you make it to a hospital alright?” Kanda asked.

“Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t,” Allen replied bitterly, then added, “Don’t worry about it. Did everything go okay after I left?”

Kanda looked uneasy, almost as if he needed to vomit.

“Yeah, I looped in Wisely, Tyki, and the analysis team. Everything went according to protocol. The Entomber is in a holding cell at the station. ‘Last I heard he hasn’t said a word. We’re searching all three islands for the other kids that are missing. Listen, Allen,” Kanda trailed off while staring at his shoes.

Kanda looked up, and Allen noticed that one of his dark circles had purple and yellow tones. Allen leaned in for a closer look and confirmed his suspicions. 

“Who,” Allen pushed Kanda’s bangs away for a better look at the damage, “Damn, who punched you in the face?” 

Kanda sighed and fixed his bangs to cover the bruising. He responded, “Tyki did, shortly after he found out what happened.”

The pair fell silent. Allen crossed his arms and held them tight to his chest. Kanda continued to look at his boots.

“What did you come here to say?” Allen asked to break the unbearable silence.

Kanda cleared his throat, then responded, “I came here to make sure you made it to the hospital safe. Lenalee wants us at the station at six hundred to complete our report within the 12 hour window.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but you could’ve just called and saved yourself the gas. Good night, Kanda,” Allen replied, and turned to go inside.

“I’m sorry,” Kanda blurted out.

Allen took his hand off the door handle and looked back over at Kanda. Allen blinked a few times in disbelief, opened his mouth to reply, then found no words forthcoming. Kanda looked him in the eye with an intense grief, his face hard but his eyes soft.

Kanda continued, “I fucked up today. Not even just today, I haven’t treated you with any respect, or even used your proper name, and you didn’t hesitate to jump in front of a knife for me. And I didn’t even make sure you were fucking okay.”

Allen felt incredibly taken aback, his own guilt overflowing from his words in the basement.

“I apologize for when I said,” Allen faltered, “no, what I said to you was unforgivable. Completely out of line. I don’t want us to be enemies, Kanda. This fighting is exhausting us both.”

Kanda shook his head in disagreement. “You don’t need to apologize. I wouldn’t expect you to just say nothing after I egged you on, bartend--”

“Allen, I mean.”

Allen smiled softly and responded, “I don’t mind if you call me bartender. It’s the truth, after all.”

Allen was unsure that Kanda knew how to genuinely smile, but his lips softened from his usual scowl. And they stood there for a few moments in silence, until the wind picked up.

Allen quietly said, “I apologize, but I’m going to freeze to death if I stay out here much longer. See you tomorrow, Kanda?”

“Good night, bartender. I’ll send the bill for the dry cleaning of my uniform,” Kanda said with a smirk. 

Allen smiled at this, soft and unprompted, and felt a flutter in his chest.

_Blood loss_ , he quickly decided, _blood loss was the only reason he felt dizzy and light._  

“Good night, Kanda. I’ll do my best not to tell practically everyone tomorrow that you were tased with your own taser,” Allen replied.

Kanda rolled his eyes while half-smiling, then waved over his shoulder as he walked back to his car. Allen waited until his car was down the street before he returned to the warmth of the apartment. Nea had fallen asleep, even with the lights on, and grumbled when Allen crawled underneath the covers.

Tomorrow, he would have to come up with a plausible alibi for what happened in the basement, because he assumed that, _Oh, my ghost named Nea saved Kanda and I. No worries, Lenalee,_ wouldn’t work.

Tomorrow, Chaoji would probably tell them where the crime scene they missed was, where the other children were, if they were alive or dead or entombed in cement. The news of Chaoji’s arrest would break to all the residents of Chaoji’s island, to his friends, his family.

It set in Allen’s mind that the Entomber was both innocent and guilty, for his body carried out the acts but his mind had no say. Allen began to cry for Chaoji’s sake, and wondered if he, too, was a few steps away from the same fate.

* * *

**Thank you guys for all the incredibly sweet reviews--I'm too terribly nervous to reply for the most part, but they brighten up even my worst days. I hope that you guys liked this chapter!**

 


	10. Everything's Got a Grey Area

Allen awoke but barely, the hazy limbo between sleep and wake. His senses slowly came to him. The soft exhale of breath through the nose, the inhale and following rise of the chest. The fragility of breath, like a still lake, so still the surface is glass and there is no sound.

Nea pressed against Allen’s side, his chin resting in the curve of Allen’s collarbone, soft breath against Allen’s bare skin like feathers brushing his chest. Nea let out an inaudible sigh, but Allen felt it against his chest.

It was moments like this, the warm bed and the silence, no sunlight and no moonlight, that Allen forgot that Nea wasn’t human. Only for a split moment, the time it takes to draw breath--Nea seemed human. He more than _seemed_ , he was; and then he wasn’t human, the crashing revelation that Allen shared a bed with a ghost.

“I have to go, don’t I?” Allen said in borderline whiny voice, more exhaustion than complaint.

“You do have to keep the lights on somehow, and I doubt Cross will let you work at the pub again, not after not showing for a week,” Nea said.

“I suppose not,” Allen replied.

Allen reminisced on when his life was just bartending: just work, sleep, repeat. Sometimes you’d get an angry drunkard, but compared to the horror of the last week? Allen could laugh.

Nea looked up at Allen, Nea’s skin slightly puffy around his golden eyes, giving him a dopey look like a cat waking from a nap. Allen noticed how his eyes were sunken in sinkholes of dark circles, how his cheekbones looked a little more prominent.

“You look terrible,” they both said in unison.

They shared a commiserable look, but when Allen looked at him, he couldn’t help but wonder why. Why, why was Nea helping him to the point of pure exhaustion, to the point where he couldn’t physically manifest? A million other questions circled in his mind, questions mostly revolving around their interrupted conversation last night.

Allen started, “Last night, you were going to tell me--”

 "Oh, it’s much too early to get into that. My brain doesn’t work before seven,” Nea replied, rubbing at his eyes.

Allen glared in Nea’s direction, the other pretending to be completely oblivious in a sleepy daze. It seemed the more Allen got closer to Nea, the more distance Nea tried to create. Allen’s glare fizzled out into a look of defeat, eyebrows pinched as he bit at the inside of his cheek.

“It’s not important. Nothing to make that abysmal of a face over,” Nea said cautiously when he noticed Allen. 

“You just,” Allen spoke very quietly, almost in a whisper, “You shut me out in that flippant way, every time I try to get to know you. And I let it go every time, but Nea, this isn’t a one-way street.”

Nea sighed, exhaling not in frustration but in something else, breath against Allen’s chest recognizable but the emotion behind it not.

“Why can’t it be that way? Why do you need to know anything about me, Allen? I’m just an annoying spirit bothering you. There’s nothing to get to know.” Nea finally replied.

Nea avoided eye contact as Allen yearned to understand how he was feeling. Allen bit deeper into his cheek and opened his mouth to speak, then stopped for a moment.

“Why, really,” Allen murmured, when he realized Nea’s emotion, “I didn’t realize before, but there’s a reason you close yourself off from me, isn’t there? You’re afraid of something.”

Nea looked up at him, worried and pensive, and then he looked away. He responded in a quick and hesitant tone, “I’m terrified, terrified of you shutting me out again. The days when you chain smoked and ignored me and I--”

Allen pondered an ignored existence, with only one person on Earth to hear you, yet they ignored you. The silence of it all would be deafening, so lonely but with no escape.

“You think I’ll shut you out again, if I get to know you? Really?” Allen asked.

Nea, pinched eyebrows and golden irises full of worry, bit at his lip as he looked at Allen. Allen smiled softly, then let out a little laugh.

“At this point, I couldn’t shut you out if I tried, Nea. We’re a team, for better or worse. At the same time, it’s hard to trust you when I know next to nothing,” Allen said.

The flight in Nea’s eyes thawed, but did not dissipate completely. Nea quickly masked this in a honeyed glaze with so much energy it was as if he’d captured sunlight in his irises.

“I know you want answers, and I’ll try my best.” Nea paused, then spoke as though he were reading from a book. “Truthfully, I don’t know why I’m here. I have no memories of a past life, only the one I’ve lived with you.”

“That sounds like it would be,” Allen stopped, grasping for an adjective that didn’t invoke pity. Frightening, frustrating, perplexing -- any word he thought up only painted Nea in suffering.

“It is what it is. I’ve spent too much time wracking my brain for an answer to only come up empty. You always want to know things about me, but there’s,” Nea looked away, “nothing to get to know.”

“That isn’t true,” Allen responded.

Nea abruptly changed the topic. “About the basement, why it took so long for me to help-- I don’t have it down to an exact science, but I know there’s a certain available energy in the world. It comes in different forms, like electromagnetic fields and electricity, things like that. Because I don’t have a body of my own, I have to depend on the energy around you to do anything, like talk or manifest my presence.”

“So that’s the reason I pay so much for utilities,” Allen said sarcastically, grinning when Nea glowered.

“Missing the point, Walker, and it’s not that noticeable. What I mean is that when you’re in the city, there’s plenty of energy around for me to use. When you’re in an abandoned church, miles from civilization, with another ghost using what little available energy there is--”

“You can’t do squat, huh?”

Nea shot him another pointed look for interrupting. “Not exactly. I’m not quite sure how it works, but every human has their own unique energy field. I can steal from your energy, but I have no idea how that affects you, so I haven’t. Or hadn’t, until the fight in the basement.”

“I feel completely fine, save for sleep deprivation. Nothing to worry about,” Allen said.

Nea eyed him warily, but shook it off. “Good. That’s also why Kanda’s taser didn’t work on Chaoji. Chaoji was so consumed by the ghost that it just ended up fueling the spirit. Speaking of which, how do you plan on explaining what happened in the basement in your report?”

“My report? My--” Allen’s eyes widened and he looked over at the clock.

“Shit!” He should’ve already arrived at the station according to the clock. Allen abruptly threw himself out of bed to get dressed.

“I’ll call a taxi, then,” Nea said with a sigh.

Allen threw on new clothes, tossing the bloody remnants of yesterday into an overflowing hamper. As he buttoned up his shirt, he noticed the bandages from his left arm coming loose. Underneath was not the gnarled, pinkish burns from the apartment fire he knew so well. He glanced over at Nea, who had the landline cradled on his shoulder, lost in a conversation.

Allen slowly unraveled the stained bandages up to his elbow, completely unnerved by his now jet black skin underneath. It wasn’t any shade of melanin, instead, it looked as though he’d tattooed every inch of his left arm in black ink. Allen pinched the smooth skin then let go, watching it settle back in place unlike scar tissue. Like regular, good old skin. He did this four or five times more, observing in disbelief.

“You almost ready? Taxi should be here in five,” Nea called out.

“Right, yeah, let me just grab my coat,” Allen answered, quickly covering his arm.

His rational brain figured this might be some sort of side effect from Nea borrowing his energy. However, he swallowed that thought and swallowed the next five thoughts after.

“I guess we can come up with a convincing story for Lee and the obnoxious one while we’re in the car,” Nea said with a sigh.

* * *

 

Allen sat quietly in Lenalee’s office, in a chair adjacent to Kanda. Kanda buried his face in a file, pursed lips and hunkered eyebrows, as they waited for Lenalee to return with the paperwork. Allen could tell that he was stifling a very strong urge to berate Allen for being late, barely succeeding as he quietly fumed into the manila folder. In response, Allen nervously bounced his leg like a jackhammer and stared at the floor, hoping that Lenalee would end this unbearable tension. The clock on the wall ticked quietly, the only sound in the room. 

Kanda let out a heavy sigh and let the folder fall to his lap. Allen was lost in thought, wondering how to smoothly tell a plausible story to Lenalee and Kanda. A soft touch on his knee dragged him back to reality. Kanda didn’t look over at him, but placed his hand on Allen’s knee as it uncontrollably bounced up and down. The touch was comforting; Allen slowly stopped bouncing his leg. Even as Allen’s leg calmed to a stop, Kanda’s hand lingered for a moment before he withdrew the touch.

The door opened, revealing Lenalee with a stack of papers in her arms. Lenalee sat down at the worn desk in front of them, flipping on the desk lamp. “Alright guys, let’s get down to business. I know everyone’s exhausted, but if we don’t cross our t’s and dot our i’s on this case, it could end in disaster. Oh, Allen, how are your hands?”

“All stitched up,” Allen said with a wave.

Kanda shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He quietly asked, “They don’t hurt too badly, do they? Your hands, I mean.”

Allen noticed Kanda’s discomfort as the other couldn’t look him in the eye. Allen clasped his hands together. 

“My hands don’t hurt at all. I wouldn’t even notice a problem if it weren’t for the stitches,” Allen lied in an attempt to soothe Kanda’s guilt.

“Right,” Kanda replied half-heartedly.

“I’m just glad you’re both alright. Although, Allen,” Lenalee had a hard expression, “you jeopardised your life, Kanda’s, and a child’s life with your rash behavior.  Completely unacceptable. You’re lucky to have made it out with just those wounds. Why didn’t you wait for backup?”

Allen gulped as he felt Kanda and Lenalee’s eyes on him. He looked at his hands and responded, “It’s not like I didn’t realize it was a stupid idea, I just can’t stand the idea of someone hurting when there’s something I can do.”

Lenalee’s eyes softened. She said, “I understand the sentiment behind your actions. However, I have to defend sending you, a consultant rather than an officer, alone, to arrest the criminal in the most high profile case this station has seen. If you had waited for Kanda and Tyki--”

“If Allen had waited, the kid would be knee deep in cement,” Kanda said.

Allen blinked, taken aback-- _was Kanda defending him?_

Lenalee sighed and responded, “Regardless, neither of you followed protocol. This case has mistrial written all over it, unless the three of us can come up with a plausible explanation for why you trespassed on private property. The anagram of Sean Murphy that the ferryman gave Allen isn’t even close to circumstantial evidence, nor probable cause.”

“You mean the Entomber could walk out of here, free, because of a technicality?” Allen asked in disbelief.

“With the right lawyer,” Lenalee nodded, “we have nothing substantial to link him to the other murders. Even Sean attacking you both could be seen as self defense, since you two were trespassing with no probable cause. Although, he hasn’t said a word nor asked for a lawyer since we put him in an interrogation room. He just stares straight ahead with dead eyes.”

Allen fell back in his chair, feeling defeated. His rash behavior could lead to Chaoji’s release, free to entomb the children still missing.

“It’s obvious he’s the Entomber, though. We’ll just have to work a confession out of him. He’ll walk out of here a free man over my dead body,” Kanda said while cracking his knuckles.

“We have less than 24 hours to get a confession. If the day ends, and we have nothing, we’ll probably have to release him,” Lenalee said quietly.

* * *

 Kanda, Allen, and Lenalee fabricated a story for their report that wouldn’t end in mistrial. Allen relaxed as he left Lenalee’s office, relieved that he didn’t have to explain the truth of what happened in the basement.

“Bartender,” Kanda said as they stood outside Lenalee’s office.

The morning light filtered in the hall through the lattice windows. The sun was rising in a vibrant orange display, like a slice of citrus on the horizon. The light caught Kanda’s features: sunlight in his dusky bangs, prominent jaw that could slice an apple, shadow eyes gazing through dawn eyelashes. Allen was taken by his beauty for a moment, staring at his soft lips, wondering how they would feel pressed against his own.

“Oi, bartender,” Kanda repeated.

Allen felt a blush creeping over his cheeks as he attempted to stop his train of thought. Kanda eyed him with a strange look.

Nea’s voice popped out of the shadows.“What are you thinking about that’s got you blushing like that?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Allen replied quickly, actively ignoring Nea.

“I want to know what happened in the basement, after I was knocked out,” Kanda said, pulling him aside by the arm.

“Don’t worry about it. It all happened so quickly I hardly know what happened, myself,” Allen said quickly, adding a fake laugh.

“You’re hiding something. No, you’ve been hiding something since the moment you started working here,” Kanda said, his tone shifting serious, suspicious, gripping Allen’s forearm a little tighter.

Allen jerked his arm free from Kanda’s grip. “Christ, why don’t you come right out and say you don’t trust me? Save the interrogation for the Entomber, would you?”

Allen’s words lit a fire in Kanda’s eyes, a mix of irritation and indignation brewing like storm clouds over the sea. Folding his arms, Allen glared back.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, idiot, it’s,” Kanda paused and exhaled through his nose, “Whatever. Think what you want. Why are you avoiding a simple question?”

“Maybe if you ask nicely, possibly throw in a pretty please, I’ll tell you,” Allen responded sarcastically.

“I want an answer, Walker,” Kanda said fiercely, “There’s no reason either of us should be alive. There’s also no plausible way that you took down a man twice your size.”

Allen sighed. “Fine. I used your taser. Simple as that.”

“So, while you had both hands gripping a knife, you grew a third arm, grabbed the taser that magically worked this time, and subdued a serial killer,” Kanda deadpanned. 

“Exactly,” Allen said with a bittersweet smile.

Kanda shifted into full annoyance, rolling his eyes. “Why won’t you tell me the truth?”

“It’s more fun this way,” Allen replied snarkily.

Really, Allen didn’t have an answer for Kanda.

Kanda glared, put his hands on his hips, and settled on replying, “I’m going to find out, one way or another, Bartender. I’ll leave it alone for now, only because I have to try to squeeze a couple words out of a serial killer. Go get some rest, God knows you look like you need it.”

Kanda’s hair waved goodbye as he turned to walk down the hall. Allen absently brought a glove to his lips while biting the inside of his cheek.

“Uhm, wait,” Allen called out.

Kanda stopped but didn’t turn around, folding his arms and posture stiffening like a bothered cat. “No way. Go home.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Allen offered, walking towards him.

“Yes I do. You want to help with the interrogation, even though you haven’t been trained. On top of that, the man stabbed you less than 18 hours ago,” Kanda shook his head, “No fucking way.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Allen fawned as he followed Kanda down the hall, “Chaoji’s in handcuffs. Besides, he thinks we’re cousins--he might open up to me. Rather, there’s a better chance he’ll talk to me than a stern-faced officer accusing him of murder.”

They stopped in front of a room at the end of the hall, a worn placard reading “Interrogation Room 4” stood out from the dull eggshell walls.

Kanda replied, “Do I want to know why he thinks you’re both cousins? You know what, I don’t. The man withstood a taser without even blinking. I doubt handcuffs would be a problem if he has a meltdown. No.”

Kanda entered the interrogation room and slammed the door in Allen’s wake. Allen stared at the door in anger for a moment, knowing it was unlocked, also knowing that incurring Kanda’s temper wasn’t the best idea.

“He’s right, you know. If that spirit gets riled up enough, it could easily break through the handcuffs. Besides, Allen, you need sleep,” Nea said, popping out of the shadows and appearing before him.

“I see you’re feeling better, since you’re able to manifest again. I’m glad,” Allen responded.

Nea looked surprised, expression fading into the warmth of a hot cup of cocoa in winter. “Fluorescent lights make it easy, no matter how dreadful they are on my complexion,” Nea’s joking tone faded into a soft voice, “Thank you for caring.”

Allen smiled, in that bright and full manner like the split second of a shooting star. “Of course.”

The interrogation room door opened, and Tyki emerged from the entrance. Allen caught a glimpse of Chaoji, on the other side of glass in the split room. Kanda was sitting opposite from Chaoji, a metal desk separating them. Chaoji slumped in his chair, staring straight ahead, with hands attached to the handcuffs on the desk. His eyes held no life in them. The door closed.

All at once, Allen felt an outpouring of guilt and pity for Chaoji. He wondered if the man had been fully consumed by the ghost possessing him, incapable of returning to the person who tended to Allen’s forehead when he fell off the bike. He wondered if Chaoji had to watch his own body kill those children, the women from the shop, every victim; screaming internally to try to stop himself.

Tyki didn’t notice Allen at first, and patted himself down in search of cigarettes. His dark curls were loosely tied back, the raven hair spilling over his chest and shoulder. Allen noticed his eyes held the same fatigue as Kanda, Lenalee, Fou: everyone’s eyes at this point.

“Oh, Allen, what a pleasant surprise,” Tyki said, attempting to hide the worn timber to his voice.

“Tyki, everything okay?” Allen said softly.

Tyki fumbled with his cigarettes once he found them, nearly lighting one indoors before he noticed Allen’s concern. He flipped the zippo shut and sighed.

“Would you like to join me for a cigarette?” Tyki responded, eyeing a passerby in the hall.

Allen looked over at Nea for approval. Nea shrugged, responded, “Fill me in on what he says.”

* * *

Clouds overtook the bright morning sun, giving the red brick of the station a muted hue. They hung low and heavy, ready to release rain and slush and the inevitable fog after. Tyki sat on a bench underneath an awning, body creaking like a poorly oiled hinge. The man’s eyes were as clouded as the sky, a dark emotion overtaking his usual nonchalant demeanor. He cupped a hand over his lighter and lit a cigarette.

“I’m sure you’ve realized,” Tyki took a long drag, exhaled, “the Entomber is possessed. There’s no fathomable way to make a ghost confess. There’s no way to prosecute a ghost, either. There’s no way to make a ghost tell you where four children are. An innocent man is headed for a life in prison, and there’s not a thing I can do. It’s frustrating.”

Allen sat down next to Tyki and lit his own cigarette. Allen said, “Tyki, honestly, you aren’t the type to get worked up over the moral question of justice, right and wrong. In fact, the more I think about it, you aren’t the type to work as a cop at all.”

“Maybe I’ve been hanging around you too long. Maybe I’ve started to care. Why am I a cop? Hah,” Tyki exhaled smoke with a little laugh, a sad, quiet laugh. 

“You met Road, Wisely’s sister, correct?” Tyki asked.

Allen was confused by the shift in topic. “I mean, yes, I have. What does that have to do with you being a cop?”

“She was murdered three years ago. She’s a ghost, Allen, bonded to Wisely because she can’t move on. So I figured if I could find her killer, maybe,” Tyki looked at his hands, “maybe she could find a little peace.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t realize,” Allen trailed off, piecing together how Road might know Nea with this new information. He put that thought away for later. “Did you ever find her murderer?” 

“That’s the thing, Allen. I found her killer, but the poor sap was none the wiser than the kid sitting in our interrogation room. The truth is,” Tyki stopped, noticing his cigarette burned out. He lit another. “Nevermind. Have you gone to see Anita?”

“Wait, what were you going to say?” Allen asked earnestly.

“Oh, Anita explains things much better than me. I need you to visit her shop and pick up some sage. It’s only a couple blocks away,” Tyki said, stubbing out his cigarette on his shoe.

Allen blinked. “Sage?”

Tyki rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “It’s a last ditch effort to break through to the possessed kid. I lit a cigarette in the room, and he seemed human for a moment. I don’t know.”

“Sure I can go,” Allen added, “Any reason you’re sending me?”

Tyki stood up and caught a raindrop in his palm as he stared up at the slate sky. “You’ve accidentally stumbled into the grey space between the living and the dead, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. It’s a tightrope walk, a wire that will eventually snap, and I fear you’ll fall the wrong way when it does. Your ghost grows stronger each time I see you, you know? His presence is as if you walk around with a boombox on your shoulders.”

“It’s not what you think, no, he’s not at all what you think,” Allen responded fiercely, “Before, you said all ghosts are malicious--what does that make Road?”

“An exception. Nea is not what you know him to be. You’re either going to end up dead or as his puppet,” Tyki responded with an intensity in his eyes, standing up and getting close to Allen as he spoke.

“Tyki,” Allen tried to swallow his anger, couldn’t, “how do you know his name? Why won’t you tell me what’s really going on?”

Tyki glared back at Allen’s furious gaze for a moment, then closed his eyes. “Go see Anita.”

Clenching his fists, Allen watched Tyki walk back inside, greet Fou as if nothing had happened. Allen sat back down on the bench as the rain picked up, running his hands through his damp, white hair. There was a truth in Tyki’s words that Allen couldn’t bring himself to face--that Nea was dangerous, devilish, a denizen of death.

Nea’s voice popped out from the white noise of the rain. “What’d Tyki have to say?”

 Allen regained his composure and evenly responded, “Nothing, really. He wants me to go pick up some sage from a little tobacco shop. Shall we?”

* * *

 


	11. Unfortunately, Prophets Speak Only in Riddles & Make No Fucking Sense

The rain was only a soft sprinkle amid ghost-like clouds, but the air was thick like honey as a premonition of the storm predicted for this evening. Allen looked over to his right to meet his reflection in a shop window, noticing how Nea didn’t have one. Downtown Limerick had streets lined with old brick homes packed side by side, painted bright colors like a patchwork quilt. However, the grey sky muted the colors today, the paint a few shades darker from last night’s rain. The air held the fresh scent of peat burning, mixed with the smell after rain of a riverbed, soil, and fresh-cut flowers.

Allen ventured to the outskirts of downtown, where the buildings were just worn bricks sandwiched together. Older shops lined the streets on the first floors of the buildings, with the upstairs portion residential. Allen stopped in front of a rather well-used entrance, the door looking like a back entry to a sleazy concert venue. Above the window in chipped, gold paint, the store announced, “Anita’s Tobacco Shoppe”. 

The entrance held the fresh scent of tobacco mixed with the stale scent of secondhand smoke. Allen looked over at Nea, who was holding his nose in distaste.

“I can’t go in there. I simply cannot, it reeks of smoke worse than Tyki’s uniform,” Nea stated, then added, “someone has burnt sage recently in there, too.”

“Fine, fine, drama queen. I’ll try to hurry,” Allen responded.

Tyki’s words were still lingering in his mind, and Allen felt relief and guilt that Nea couldn’t follow him. Allen reminded himself that he was only here for sage, nothing else. With tense shoulders, he carefully pulled open the door with his fingertips as to not disturb the stitches. 

A little bell fixed on the door, chimed as Allen entered the store. Glass cases lined the walls, filled with cigars, old-timey pipes, and a thick layer of dust. Over to his left on the checkout desk, an incense burner held two sticks of what smelled like sandalwood and jasmine. He noticed a silver zippo laying next to the incense burner. Allen picked the lighter up and thumbed over the pattern branded in the steel, two crossed keys forming an ‘X’. It was the same design as Tyki’s lighter.

“Something catch your eye?”

Allen dropped the lighter and spun around. A woman stood by the counter, dark hair flowing past her shoulders and thin, rose lips pulled into a coy smile. The hair that framed her face, past her straight bangs, was held back on either side with ornate, golden hair accessories.  Allen recognized her, but couldn’t remember where he’d met her. She stared back at him, blinking a few times in the silence. He realized she was waiting on a response.

“Um, hello, I-”, he realized she’d been in his dream when he’d fallen asleep on the boat, “Wait, Annie?”

She held out her hand and laughed a little. “Anita, actually. Sorry for sneaking up on you. I have looked forward to meeting you.”

Allen shook her hand, a smooth palm but firm grip. He responded, “N-Nice to meet you. Again, I guess. How exactly were you in my dream?”

Anita laughed again like a wind chime in the fall breeze. Her presence was almost deafening to the senses, as if he were standing before royalty in his pyjamas. She tilted her head, amber adornments in her hair swaying.

Not answering his question, she said, “Follow me, Allen Walker. We have much to discuss.”

* * *

Anita led Allen to a back room beyond the storefront. The room was minimalist, with a short tea table in the center and incense burning atop. Anita kneeled beside the table on a cushion, pouring three cups of tea. Allen warily sat down on a cushion opposite her, resting his hands in his lap. The silence made Allen fidget, as he picked at his cuticles, but Anita seemed unbothered.

“When was the last time you stopped everything and had a cup of tea? ” She asked, reaching over the table and placing a cup beside him.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had time to relax, I’ll admit,” Allen said.

“But the police have caught the Entomber, no? It’s all over the newspapers. Isn’t it fair to take a moment to relax, to celebrate victory?” She said with a dark smirk.

Allen sighed, thinking about Chaoji’s fate. The public outcry was almost enough to reinstate the death penalty. 

“But it’s not a victory for you, is it?” She added.

“It’s complicated,” Allen finally responded, staring at his own reflection in the tea. 

“Because if you condemn Chaoji for the ghosts actions, then you have to accept that you could suffer the same fate, right? You have to accept that ghosts are inherently evil,” Anita said.

Allen blinked, looking in her dark eyes so full of light and charisma. He couldn’t answer.

“Anita, Tyki mentioned that a man possessed by a ghost killed Road. Are there lots of ghosts out there, committing atrocities like this?”

“Changing the topic won’t solve your unrest, you know,” Anita said, but continued, “almost all of the ghosts left aren’t strong enough to manifest, much less possess someone.”

“All the ghosts left? What do you mean by,  _ left _ ?” Allen responded.

Anita sipped her tea. “There was a mass eradication of ghosts a few years ago by a secret, closed society. Not only the ghosts, but anyone who was against their ideals. You see,” Anita put her teacup down, “there is a secret war in this land, between those who see the humanity in taigs and those who do not. Where do you think you fall on that spectrum, Allen?”

Allen mulled it over. On the one hand, the ghost possessing Chaoji made an understandable case for eradication. But his memories of Nea’s smile and warmth held him back.

“I don’t know. I don’t think that all ghosts are bloodthirsty spirits, but I recognize some are. I’m sure there’s some way to coexist,” Allen said.

“But are the so-called “good” ghosts worth the “bad” ones? Even if it means that children end up dipped in cement like fondue? Does saving a hundred people at the cost of one life constitute a good or a bad moral standing?” Anita said.

“Well, I-” Allen looked at her fiercely, “It’s not that simple, to break things into good and bad when you’re dealing with people.”

“So you see ghosts as people?”

“I mean,” Allen ran a hand through his hair, “ghosts were human, right? What’s changed?”

“I’d like to think so,” a voice said.

Allen noticed what looked like black smoke rising from the cushion to his left. The smoke became thick like fog until a fleshed-out figure appeared. He recognized the tall, built woman from his dream on the boat; Mahoja flashed a smile, seemingly unfazed by the incense on the table. 

“Mahoja is my companion, a ghost tethered to me much like your own. Now, Allen,” Anita stared intensely at him, “ask me what you’re afraid to ask.”

“I, well, is Nea,” Allen half raised his hand, then felt his fingers curl up when he continued quietly, “what do you know about Nea?”

Anita clicked her tongue, responded, “That’s not really what you want to ask. You want to know whether or not he’s going to possess you and kill someone. You want to know why everyone seemingly knows your ghost, but you don’t, right?”

Allen opened his mouth to respond, but his cell phone ringer interrupted him. He looked at the caller ID: Kanda.

“Go ahead, take it. Might be important,” Anita said with a wink.

Allen flipped open the phone and held it to his ear. 

_ "Where are you, bartender?”  _ Kanda said through the phone.

Allen rolled his eyes. “Did no one ever teach you how to start a conversation?”

_ “We found the other crime scene. Well, a homeless man did. Abandoned church, three kids, D.O.A. Looks like they’ve been here ‘a while. They were posed in the pews, hands in prayer with cement wings.” _

Eyes wide, Allen clenched the phone a little tighter, enough to disturb his stitches, and his face went a few shades paler. He felt his tear ducts open, the pressure beneath his eyes, and bit back the urge to cry. 

“Where is it? I’ll meet you there,” Allen replied in a voice similar to a rickety bridge over a sharp drop. 

A long pause. Kanda cleared his throat. “ _ We’ve got it under control. Get some sleep _ .”

“Kanda, I’m not a child you’re babysitting,” Allen replied hotly as anguish turned to anger.

_ “You’re right, you aren’t. But there’s no reason for you to see this nightmare fuel, I know how much this stuff affects you.” _

Allen stared blankly ahead, slowly processing that Kanda sounded genuine in concern.  _ Kanda, concerned about him? _ This marked a record two times that Kanda had shown him an emotion besides anger, not that Allen was keeping score.

Allen’s silence prompted Kanda. _ “Uh, I’m just saying, we’ve got enough officers on the scene. So don’t worry. I’m uh, losing connection. Bye.” _

After the beep of Kanda hanging up, Allen pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it in confusion.

“Are you two together?” Anita said, covering a wry smile with her hand.

“What do you mean? Like, dating?” Allen asked with a quizzical expression. 

Allen honestly hadn’t thought about Kanda romantically besides a daydream kiss. The idea didn’t disgust him, and Allen blushed the more he thought about it. Like an anvil cartoonishly dropped on Allen’s daydream of a cute coffee date, he remembered Nea. He wondered how he could have a relationship with someone with a ghost constantly following him around.  _ Would make for pretty awkward sex, _ Allen concluded. He went sunburn red when he realized where his mind had trailed off to.

“No? I can tell he likes you.” Anita said, noting Allen’s embarrassment with a warm smile, “I’ll offer you one thought before you go. Do you believe in self-determination, or are we slaves to a pre-written script? Do you care your own path in this world, or are there deities controlling our every move? Depending on which you believe, if ghosts truly are human, you have the answer you’re looking for.”

* * *

Allen clutched the satchel of sage Anita gave him, along with a lighter identical to Tyki zippo with crossed keys. The bushels of sage, about the size of his index figure and resembling overgrown marijuana, carried a particular scent. He lit a stray cigarette as he walked back to the station through downtown Limerick. It wasn’t that he wanted a smoke; he wasn’t ready to face Nea yet.

Anita hadn’t offered many answers, compared to the questions she brought up. He wanted more information about the underground war against ghosts, about Nea, about the eradication of ghosts some years ago. He stopped in the street, staring at the cigarette in his limp fingers, smoke curling up around his face. Anita mentioned the elimination of ghosts for a specific reason, and it wasn’t to serve as a history lesson.  _ She was giving him an option, wasn’t she--t _ o seek out whatever was left of the secret society and have them purge Nea from existence. 

“Ye’ alright, mate? Lookin’ as if ye’ ‘ave seen a ghost,” a passerby on the street said. 

“Fine, fine, sorry to bother,” Allen said quickly, realizing he’d been standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

Allen continued on his way, not realizing the cigarette had burned out as he was lost in his thoughts. He had so many questions and worries that he wasn’t sure which thought to attend to first. It was almost comical to him at this point, like his life was God’s biggest punchline in a stand-up comedy act. God, at the microphone in a dimly lit club, half-drunk shouting, “You might be Allen Walker if,” followed by angels’ roaring laughter.

“Did she tell you you’re going to die in seven days? What’s that face for?”

“Nothing, Nea,” Allen responded absently, the way someone does when they aren’t really listening. 

Nea frowned. “Nothing, really? You’re brooding just because you feel like it, hmm?”

“We’re at the station, Nea,” Allen said, holding an index finger over his lips.

Nea made a face. “This isn’t over, Walker.” 

Allen pulled open the glass station doors and greeted Fou in the lobby. Half asleep, Fou sat behind the welcome desk with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her sleepy face leaned on her hand, the other hand repeatedly clicked her mouse to the computer, not noticing Allen’s entrance.

“Damned mouse, it’s frozen again,” Fou mumbled, then sneezed, then cursed. “We can’t even afford to heat this damn building, can we?”

Fou looked up at Allen, finally noticing him standing there. “Oh, Allen. Feelin’ alright?”

“Fine, thank you. And you?” Allen responded.

“I’m fine, too. Fine bein’ the codeword for shit up a creek, aye?” Fou smiled, erasing the dark circles and fatigue for a moment.

“Have they made any progress with Chaoji? I,” Allen paused, his breathing hitched, “Kanda told me about the crime scene they found.”

“Hell is too good a place for this guy,” Fou said with dark eyes, “I’d put ‘em down myself if they let me in the room. But, Allen, ye’ aren’t on the case anymore, right?”

“What do you mean?” Allen asked.

“Lenalee put you on probation for reckless behavior, right? Ye are probably stuck entering data into the system with Wisely, since you can’t write and fill out reports with those hands. I only know because I had to put the write up into your file, but I guess it hasn’t gone into effect yet until it’s in the computer system,” Fou replied.

Nea chimed in,  _ “This could be good for you Allen, you know. Learning to stop beating a dead horse, letting things go, working on that stubbornness--” _

“So, I’m not on probation, but I’m almost on probation. Especially if someone lost the physical write-up,” Allen said with a pleading smile.

Nea shook his head, muttered,  _ “You’re literally a bull versus a red flag when it comes to getting into trouble, you know?” _

Fou looked at Allen with a hard expression for a moment before speaking. “Will you get that bastard’s confession if I happen to misplace your probationary report?”

Allen gave a small nod. “I will, Fou. He will walk if I don’t get in there and do something.”

Nea put a hand to his forehead and rolled his eyes.  _ “Of course, with no interrogation skills and bundles of dried leaves, you’ve got this, Allen.” _

“I trust you,” Fou said, not breaking eye contact, “You hear that? I trust you, aye? Don’t go screwing this up!”

Allen smiled in that crooked way of his. His lips didn’t match his eyes, his eyes so full of passion and raw anguish, but the corners of his lips tilted upward in a display of joy. It was only when he smiled that Allen told the truth, a confession of his sorrow, a disassembling of the mask he wore.

* * *

Allen made his way back to the interrogation room holding Chaoji, ignoring Nea’s sarcastic comments the entire way. Nea revealed his true motives through a restlessness in his voice.

Stopping in front of the interrogation room, Allen waited for an officer to round the end of the hallway before looking over at Nea.

“It’ll be fine, so stop worrying,” Allen said, as if that phrase had ever stopped someone from worrying.

“But I can’t help you, once you light the sage. You’ll be alone in there with him,” Nea protested.

Allen put his hand on the door handle. “Tyki will be literally five feet away--”

Nea cut him off, done hiding behind sarcasm. “Through a locked door and glass, Allen. Have you considered what Lenalee is going to do if you do this? Have you considered how she’s going to pitch this to her supervisors, to a judge, an untrained consultant going to interrogate a key suspect? Say you get a confession--it won’t be useable. Even if it was, how are you going to explain burning sage to a jury? Sounds like coercion to me. You haven’t thought about this at all, and it’s going to backfire.”

Allen stared at his hand on the door handle, finally loosening his grip after a moment. Nea was right, despite his gut feeling to charge in there. He couldn’t bring himself to move his hand, because somehow that meant he was abandoning the children still missing. 

“What if Tyki comes in with me? That makes it more legitimate, right? ” Allen asked. 

Nea let out a long sigh and templed his hands around his nose, rubbing the corners of his eyes. “I mean, yes, technically, it does. You should still run it by Lenalee first, but I know you won’t.”

Allen entered interrogation room 4 and noticed Tyki pacing the length of the one-way glass window. He was mouthing words, possibly practicing different approaches, stopping when he noticed Allen.

“How was Anita?” Tyki asked, curiosity teeming in his voice and eyes.

“Cryptic and confusing. How is Chaoji?” Allen responded.

“Cryptic and confusing,” Tyki offered a smile, then it faded, “I left the room to grab more coffee. When I came back, he’d carved the word “HELP” into the table with his fingernails. When I asked him about it, he continued to stare off at the wall like a dead fish.  I tried to bandage his fingers ‘cause he was bleeding, but he wouldn’t let me get close without shirking me.”

Allen walked over to the glass window and saw the wooden table now marred with the word “HELP” in red letters as big as Chaoji’s forearm. It looked as though he had repeatedly scratched the word into the table until his fingers bled. A nail was stuck in the rut of the “E”, and blood outlined the word. A creeping sensation overcame him, and the hair on his arms and neck stood up. Even through the one-way glass, Chaoji was making direct eye contact with dead eyes, sitting completely still. Allen’s pulse picked up and his lungs felt every cigarette he’d ever smoked.

“Now that’s something different, albeit unnerving,” Tyki leaned closer to the window, “He’s like an old painting where the eyes follow you.”

“Shall we go in, then, if we have his attention?” Allen said, his determined voice on the shaky side.

“No. His body language has completely changed since you entered the room. He’s sitting upright like a cat waiting to pounce rather than slouching into the chair. We need to light the sage, let it burn for a while, and hope that we get some sort of positive response. As for--”

The door to the room opened, and Lenalee entered. Allen felt his face run hot, knowing she could probably fire him for this. No, she could definitely fire him. However, she was not her usual shades of yellow; instead she was a somber indigo. Her entire body language was closed off. She held a file tight to her chest and glanced at Chaoji before approaching Tyki and Allen. 

“Tyki,” Lenalee seemed to have trouble forcing the words out of her mouth, “We’re stopping the questioning of this suspect.”

“What?” Tyki and Allen said in disbelief. 

“It’s out of my hands, and not my decision,” Lenalee said with clenched fists and pursed lips, “Link says we have a better chance of finding the kids if we release Chaoji and put a tail on him.”

Allen mulled over her words, running a hand through his colorless hair. “Wait, Lenalee--”

“Don’t try to bargain with me. You’re on probation anyway, Allen. It’s the only thing I can do to try to keep you safe,” Lenalee said, cutting him off. 

After Allen’s failed attempt, Tyki chimed in, “As someone not on probation, I think that this idea is foolish and we might lose someone, child or officer, by releasing the worst murderer in Ireland’s history. Why don’t we at least wait for the end of the 24 hour window?”

“You don’t think I know that?” Lenalee said in a hissed whisper, continuing, “The brass assigned the case to Link due to my ‘shoddy leadership’. I’m not allowed to make any final decisions on what happens now. And we aren’t waiting any longer because of how cold this winter is--if the kids aren’t near some source of heat, they may already be dead.”

Allen felt guilt wash over him, because it wasn’t Lenalee’s leadership, but his own rash actions. He caused this.

“Jesus. The press will parade our heads on sticks,” Tyki said.

“Link bribed the major news stations in order to get a gag order, at least until we have him back in custody. He seems sure that Chaoji will go after the kids straight after getting out of here. Allen,” Lenalee looked over at him with pleading eyes, “Please go join Wisely in Room 103. We’re severely behind on data entry and processing evidence.”

Allen slumped his shoulders, feeling defeated by his remorse. “Right, proper.”

* * *

Allen stuck around the garda station until 9:00 PM until he was forced to go home by Lenalee. Every officer was waiting for news since the release of the Entomber, and nobody wanted to leave. He didn’t speak much while filing data in Room 103, only offering a few “yeah’s” when Nea or Wisely talked to him. Desperately wanting to help Chaoji, Allen tried to scheme even on his walk home.

The cold evening bit right through his jacket and his clothes. Allen shivered as he walked, ignoring Nea’s motherly looks.

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself, at all. Probation is probably the best thing you could’ve asked for. ”

“I’m fine,” Allen muttered back, retreating further into his beige trench coat as a gust of wind ripped at the fabric.

“If you get frostbite, I don’t want to hear it. When was the last time you ate? Or showered, for that matter,” Nea said.

“Sleep, first. Then I’ll raid the nearest Mcdonald’s of every last fry they have,” Allen replied.

“Fast food, again? Well, I guess I won’t complain as long as you eat.”

“You do realize it still counts as a complaint if you add a snide comment, right,” Allen said.

Allen trudged up his stairs, thinking only of the comfort of his bed. He put his key in the lock, turned it, but didn’t hear the lock click. The door was already unlocked. Deciding that he must’ve forgotten to lock it this morning, he opened the door.

Rancid, metallic, humid air bombarded his senses. Allen gagged, knowing the scent of soured blood and decomposing flesh. It looked as though someone had taken a bucket of maroon paint and thrown it on the walls, the bed, the carpet. Almost every inch of his apartment was covered in blood. Someone left a hand painted message in blood written on the wall above the bed.

“HELP.”

Allen noticed a sizeable lump beneath the now ruby comforter. He felt dizzy, as if his blood pressure had dropped to the floor. It was as if he were in a dream, or nightmare, rather.

“Allen, get the fuck out of there, now,” Nea said in a flat voice Allen had never heard before, like the low growl of a cat with its ears back.

He lifted up the comforter, finding the source of the smell. A pig’s head, only the head, lay in the center of the bed. The head was decomposing: hundreds of maggots writhing out of an empty eye socket, peach flesh sloughing off, and the other dead eye milky and deflated. He could see bone, and the neck was stained red but no longer bleeding, rotting instead. There was something carved in the forehead.

Nea aggressively pulled Allen away from the bed, but Allen fought back to try to read the words.

“Wait, there’s something written on the forehead,” he squinted as he was dragged towards the door, “Matthew 10:28.”

“That’s great, Allen, but it’s time to call the station and get someone down here, now,” Nea said, staring at Allen with deep concern. 

Allen realized his hand was shaking too badly to dial the correct number, and realization hit him in that moment. The Entomber had broken into his apartment, probably in an attempt to kill him. There was something about the crime scene that didn’t provoke the idea of murder, though. It seemed more of a message to Allen, from Chaoji and from his ghost. Allen stiffened--the bible verse.

“The kids are already dead, aren’t they? He leaves bible verses after he kills them,” Allen said in an almost sedated voice.

Nea didn’t answer, but took the phone from Allen’s trembling hands and dialed the station. He handed the phone back to Allen. A male voice answered, explained that Fou had asked for a couple days off when Allen asked, and noted that Lenalee wasn’t in the station at the moment. The attendant connected Allen with Link, informing Allen that all information on that case had to go through him. Allen quickly hung up, and dialed another number.

“Hey, Kanda, are you there?”

He didn’t know why Kanda was the person he called. Allen had to force out the words as his brain was still reeling from the sight and smell. His wobbly voice gave away that something was disturbingly wrong.

A pause. “What’s wrong? Are you safe?”

“I don’t know,” Allen said, his voice cracking and tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

“Where are you? What happened?” Kanda said in a rushed and panicked tone.

“My apartment. I’m fine, just, there’s blood everywhere and I,” Allen choked up and lost the ability to talk.

“I’m on my way,” Kanda said, hanging up after.

Allen broke down like an old car out of oil, all the inner parts grinding against each other uncomfortably and engine seizing up. Hyperventilating and crying, he sat down on the steps to his apartment, ignoring the sprinkling of rain picking up into a shower of sleet. He wrapped his arms around his knees and tucked his head inward. Nea sat beside him and rubbed his back.

“You’re having a panic attack, Allen. You’ve got to breathe before you pass out,” Nea said.

Nea seemed completely unfazed by what lay in the apartment, which frightened Allen. He couldn’t think clearly and pushed that thought aside, focusing on inhaling and exhaling.

Kanda arrived about ten minutes later, jumping out of the squad car and jogging over to Allen. The rain had picked up, and Allen’s clothes were soaking wet and stuck to the skin. Allen didn’t speak and stared at the pavement, even as Kanda put his umbrella in Allen’s hand. Kanda started up the stairs towards the ajar door. 

“Don’t,” Allen said quietly.

Kanda visibly flinched when he got close enough to see inside, and Allen caught a waft of the sickly-sweet smell of rotting flesh that nearly made him vomit. Kanda shut the door, and hesitated, then sat down on the step next to Allen. Allen shared the umbrella with him, their shoulders touching beneath the protective cover.

The rain pitter-pattered on the umbrella, and the streetlamps looked like orange, gaseous pompoms through the sheets of rain. Allen put his head on Kanda’s shoulder, and Kanda stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. Kanda put an arm around Allen, squeezing his shoulder lightly. His touch was warm and comforting, like sitting in front of a space heater on a winter day. They stayed like this for a while, not speaking underneath the black umbrella.

“There’s a bible verse on the pig’s head. I think the kids we’re trying to find are already dead,” Allen said.

Kanda shifted uncomfortably before finally he responded, “Speculation won’t get us anywhere, Walker. What happened to the fucking tail they had on the Entomber? Did they just lose him for a few hours so he could do this? I’m calling Link."

Allen lifted his head from Kanda’s shoulder. Kanda put Link on speaker and they listened to the drawn-out beeps until Link picked up the phone.

“Hello, Kanda?”

“Hey, yeah, what the absolute fuck are you doing right now? Because you aren’t tailing Chaoji. If you were, you’d be here, at Allen’s apartment, now with added blood and a Godfather inspired bed.”

Link curtly responded, “I haven’t lost eyes on Chaoji once today. Not even for a moment. Whatever is going on has to be a prank by someone who knows Allen is on the case. Process the scene and get a few other officers out there, if you’re worried.”

Kanda glared at the phone. “A prank? Link--”

Allen cut Kanda off. “There was a bible verse carved in the pig’s head. The public doesn’t know those details of the case. Also, the same message Chaoji carved into the table at the station was written on the wall. You’re sure you’re following Chaoji right now?”

“Of course I’m sure, I--” Link abruptly cut off his sentence.

“Link?” Allen said, wondering if they had a bad connection due to the storm.

“The gas station--I didn’t have anyone follow him in. He’s wearing a hat and a large coat, it’s possible that he had someone pretend to be him to throw us off,” Link gasped, quickly adding, “Kanda, get Allen somewhere safe immediately. It’s likely that he’s Chaoji’s next target. I’ll send officers to process Allen’s apartment.”

“How long ago did you lose him at the gas station?” Kanda asked. 

There was a long pause, which served to answer Kanda’s question. Link finally said, “Just take care of Allen. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

Link hung up. 

Allen was too weary and cold, coming down from the adrenaline rush, to dispute his new damsel in distress position. Kanda’s arm around him kept him from toppling over from his wet clothes as he made his way over to the car. Opening the passenger door by the curb, Kanda held the umbrella over the entrance as Allen climbed in. Kanda entered the driver’s side and threw the car in drive. However, he didn’t drive like his usual self--Allen looked over at the speedometer and saw he was going the speed limit. Kanda even used a turn signal.

Kanda lit a cigarette, then held the open pack in Allen’s direction with one hand on the wheel, cigarette hanging from his mouth. Allen took off his soaking wet gloves, fished one from the pack, and pulled out the zippo that Anita gave him. He noticed a little dried burgundy on the white medical tape wrapped around his palm. Allen leaned over and lit the cigarette in Kanda’s mouth, and Kanda thanked him.

The frosty air from the cracked window began to battle with the heat blasting in the car. 

Allen sighed out smoke, said, “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. I just started driving. Do you want to go to the station?” Kanda said. 

“Do you think they’d have a spare uniform in my size? I’m freezing my ass off,” Allen said.

“Bartender, you’re the one who chose to sit in the rain for thirty minutes,” Kanda smirked as Allen glowered, “We could stop by my place and get you a change of clothes. As long as my apartment isn’t redecorated like yours.”

Allen fell silent. He remembered the sights like a powerpoint slideshow in his head. He was pretty damn sure that he would never be able to step foot in there again, even breaking his lease didn’t matter. He took a long drag, wondering where he was going to stay after this. A motel, maybe. Or a broom closet at the station, possibly.

“I shouldn’t be joking around about this,” Kanda anxiously looked over at Allen, “Uh, sorry.”

“I think it’s nice you’re trying to cheer me up. You’re just really quite terrible at it,” Allen teased.

Kanda huffed, but didn’t respond. 

They rode in silence for a while. Kanda pointedly focused on the road, but took his arm from its perch on the console. He gingerly clasped Allen’s hand, intertwining their fingers and giving him a soft squeeze, careful of the stitches. The car was dark, the only light from the dashboard, but Allen noticed a faint amount of color in Kanda’s cheeks, a shadow creeping over his face. His own face began to feel hot as Kanda rubbed small circles into Allen’s hand, the motion comforting in its repetition. 

Lightheaded and relaxed, Allen leaned his head against the car window, dozing off within 30 seconds.

* * *

The classic Iphone ringtone shook Allen awake from a deep sleep. Deep enough that he didn’t recognize his surroundings at first, jumped out of his skin for a moment, then pieced together the events of the night. Allen looked out of the car window and saw he was on the outskirts of Limerick. Right, because his apartment was now a crime scene.

Kanda answered the phone. “Yeah, Link?”

Allen noticed that Kanda didn’t put the phone on speaker this time. He also woke up enough to realize that Kanda’s coat was draped over him. Kanda had a computer propped in his lap, and it looked as though he’d been working on a report for a while.

Nea didn’t appear, but spoke in Allen’s head in a singsong voice _ , “Kanda and Allen sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” _

Allen forced himself not to respond to Nea’s taunt, catching his tongue at the last second. 

Kanda said, “Yeah, he’s fine. Did you at least arrest the imposter? When the hell did Chaoji have time to set this up, and who the hell would support him?”

Kanda listened, but rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. Keep me updated.”

“How long was I out?” Allen asked through a yawn.

“An hour or so. You looked like a dead person, so I felt bad to wake you up. I’ve been working on reports on my laptop, anyway,” Kanda said in the most nonchalant tone he could muster.

“Oh wow, a dead person? Thanks for the compliment,” Allen said, half-smirking when Kanda looked caught off guard.

“Link also told me to tell you that you live like an animal,” Kanda said, almost laughing as Allen began an embarrassed protest.

“Oh, I’m sure your flat is super clean, right? Let’s go then, bodyguard,” Allen responded with a stretch.

* * *

_Updating, twice in the same month?_ Thank you guys for putting up with my sporadic update schedule  & leaving me such kind messages. Let me know what you think! xx

 


	12. *The Sound of Rain Hitting a Tin Roof, while Angel Olsen's "Shut Up Kiss Me" Plays Softly*

Kanda’s apartment was in an abandoned part of town, similar to Allen’s neighborhood but on the opposite side of Limerick. The streetlamps above flickered as Allen attempted to peel his wet clothes from the leather seat. Rain continued to pour in sheets, the sky a dark swirl of clouds above.

“It’s the door across the street. I’m on the second floor. The green one, to the side of the shop,” Kanda said and pointed at the olive door.

Kanda handed the umbrella to Allen as he fished for his keys. Allen noticed Kanda’s apartment sat above an abandoned shop. In fact, the whole street was a ghost town. It wasn’t too late at night, but Allen noticed no lights on in any of the buildings.

“Kanda, do you even have neighbors? How exactly do you manage to let an apartment in the abandoned part of town? Is this where you reveal you’re going to murder me?” Allen asked.

“Keep talking about my apartment and I’ll only led you the halloween costume Lavi left here a couple years ago to wear,” Kanda grumbled.

“Noted,” Allen said.

Through the door led immediately to a steep set of wooden stairs, a barren entryway. Allen couldn’t comment on the lack of decor; the motel art that the previous owner left still hung on his own apartment walls. Allen followed Kanda up the stairs with no light, nearly bumping into him when the other stopped abruptly. Apparently there was a second door at the top, complete with a deadbolt after the initial lock.

“You must entertain a lot,” Allen muttered, invoking a glare from Kanda.

They entered the apartment and Kanda flipped on the lights. The space was similar to a studio loft apartment, flowing from the kitchen at the entrance to a bed against the back wall. A patio covered in greenery lay off to the left past the counter bar that boxed off the kitchen. Plants of all kind were strewn everywhere; herbs placed the kitchen counters, vines flowing down from windowsills, wooden shelves above the bed with tiny succulents, and an aloe plant hugging coffee table. A gigantic two paneled window stretched the center of the entire back wall.

“What?” Kanda asked, peering at Allen beside an open wardrobe near the bed.

Allen noticed the lack of decorations on the exposed brick walls, with no family photos in sight. A scratched leather couch lay in the center of the room, joined by end tables and a coffee table with a few candles atop. Everything was functional, with no TV even.

“Nothing,” Allen replied quickly, realizing he was still standing in the entryway. “I like your apartment. I’m probably the first living creature to set foot in here, besides you, aren’t I?”

Kanda stopped rifling through the wardrobe near the bed for a moment, as if Allen’s words meant something to him. Then he continued as if nothing had happened, responded, “You’re so lucky Lavi left a clown costume, since you want to keep cracking jokes. For the record, I have two dogs, so you aren’t. They’re just at the boarded until we finish this case, because I’m not here enough.”

Allen rolled his eyes and said, “I should’ve specified human. Also, is this building too old to run heat?”

Kanda tossed a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt to Allen and closed the wardrobe.

“Here you go, before I change my mind. And I like it cold,” Kanda replied.

Allen excused himself to the bathroom to change, finding it difficult to peel the damp clothes from his freezing skin. After managing to snake out of one arm of his soaked clothes, Allen stopped and stared at the T-shirt, then his left arm. He couldn’t exactly expect Kanda to not question an arm covered in bandages, and Allen didn’t have an answer as to why his arm was now jet black.

Peeling back the bandages just on his shoulder, Allen hoped he’d see the gnarled pink flesh he’d come accustomed to. Unfortunately the same tattoo ink flesh greeted him. At some point, he was going to have to deal with that, but tonight was not that night. Quickly covering the arm, Allen knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, Kanda, do you have anything long-sleeved?”

“No.”

“But, I’m just so cold, you see?”

“No.”

“But-”

“No.”

Allen sighed in defeat, leaning his forehead against the bathroom door.

“You could always hang yourself from the shower rod,” Nea offered.  
Allen opened his mouth to respond, then realized his voice would probably carry out to the living room through the old door. He begrudgingly put on the sweatpants and T-shirt, both black and a size too big. The T-shirt probably two sizes. The clothes smelled of Kanda, of African black soap and fresh citrus. He looked at himself in the mirror, gripping his left arm nervously.

Allen exited the bathroom and noticed Kanda on his laptop on the couch. He sat down beside him, although Kanda didn’t look up.

“What now?” Allen asked.

Kanda finished typing a sentence then looked over at Allen. “We wait for Link to catch the guy. You can sleep in my bed; I have enough work to keep me up all night.”

Allen shook his head. “I refuse to be some damsel in distress. How can I help?”

“By going to bed,” Kanda replied, visibly satisfied as Allen’s blood pressure rose.

“Surely you have some files from the case lying around here. I’m not going to just sleep while you do all the work.”

“Allen,” Kanda lowered his laptop screen, “You do realize the position you’re in, right? I mean, you’re a serial killer’s prime target, and--”

Kanda stopped, staring directly at Allen’s bandaged arm. Then, he looked up warily at Allen.

“What happened to your arm?”

Allen knew this was coming, but hadn’t prepared an excuse somehow. “None of your business, I know that much.”

Kanda instinctively reached out, and Allen recoiled back into the armrest of the couch. “You’re always protective of your left arm, so I figured there was something wrong. Let me see.”

“Drop it, Kanda,” Allen said sternly.

“Drop it, just like the last thing you were being secretive about? Is your whole life a web of lies, Allen?” Kanda said, obviously still stewing about their earlier argument this morning.

“It really doesn’t concern you, or this case, so I don’t see why you care,” Allen responded coldly.

Kanda gave Allen a very strange look, as if he had something to say but didn’t know how to word it. Irritation soon replaced the odd glance. He folded his arms and replied, “A fellow officer keeping secrets is a problem. You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

“Oh, here’s the King of Trusting Friends here to lecture me now,” Allen said in a grand voice.

“Why can’t you just tell me what happened in the basement with the Entomber?” Kanda said, starting to get annoyed.

“You’ll have to let that one go, because I’m never telling you. It doesn’t concern you in the slightest,” Allen replied.

“You’re deflecting,” Kanda narrowed his eyes, “You’re always deflecting like you’ve done something wrong since day one. It’s not outlandish to wonder why.”

“If you keep using those interrogation skills on me I promise I will punch you in the face,” Allen replied nonchalantly.

Kanda eyebrows pinched, but at the same time his eyes held something else deep that Allen didn’t recognize. They were in a deadlock of glares, and then Kanda’s eyes softened. He gingerly reached for Allen’s arm, the soft touch foreign to Allen. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t pull away this time.

“It’s grotesque,” Allen said quietly, then looked away from Kanda’s intense gaze.

Kanda didn’t respond and carefully unraveled the top layer of bandages around Allen’s hand. The revealed slate skin made Allen frown in chagrin, while Kanda continued to unwrap his arm. Once all of the bandages had been removed, save for the gauze wrapped around his palm, Kanda looked up at Allen in concern.

“My last apartment caught fire,” Allen offered, trying to keep a fake, cheerful smile, “and the other day the skin just turned black like this. I’m not sure if its some form of necrosis, or what’s going on, really. It’s not a big deal, I just keep it covered because it’s unsightly.”

“Why do you always fucking do that?” Kanda said in exasperation, still holding Allen’s wrist.

Allen looked at Kanda in confusion. “Do what, exactly?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Kanda said, repeating Allen, “it’s grotesque, it’s unsightly--you’re constantly belittling yourself, or throwing yourself in harms’ way, or, fuck, Allen. You act like you’re the dog shit on God’s shoe.”

This took Allen by surprise, followed by indignation. Allen responded, “You don’t know me at all, Kanda. Before you act all high and mighty--”

“You’re right, I don’t know you. I doubt anyone does, because for some reason you can’t trust a living soul. Lavi’s your best friend, but I doubt he even knows your middle name,” Kanda snapped back.

Allen looked down at the obsidian skin, muttered, “If you knew me, you’d hate me too. You’re better off--”

Kanda kissed him mid-sentence, clumsy from simultaneous desire and vexation. Allen didn’t register what was happening at first, lost in a state of shock as if he’d been hit by a garbage truck. A moment later all his senses came back to him: the smell of his dark hair cascading around Allen, the taste of spearmint gum masking a lingering cigarette, the longing touch of Kanda’s lips, the sound of rain picking up on the roof above. Allen kissed back with more force as Kanda cupped his face with one hand, realizing how much he’d ached to be touched like this by someone even if he assumed Kanda’s main reason was to shut him up.

Kanda’s phone on the coffee table began to ring, but they continued to kiss until Allen finally pulled away for air.

“I’m better off what?” Kanda said almost in a whisper, and Allen felt him smirk against his lips.

“Y-you should probably get that,” Allen said breathlessly, unable to make eye contact as his cheeks were flushed enough already.

Kanda blinked, turning various shades of peach as if he was just processing what had happened. “Uh, get what?”

Allen glanced over at the coffee table, and Kanda finally registered the ringtone blaring in the room. The Iphone showed Link’s name across the screen.

“Shit,” Kanda muttered, grabbing the phone and attempting to regain his composure before answering. “Y-Yeah, Link? Any news?”

As Kanda talked with Link on the phone, Allen absently brought two fingers to his own lips trying to figure out if that had really just happened. It hadn’t been an awful experience, much to Allen’s dismay. In fact, he wouldn’t mind kissing him again, a thought that didn’t help the blush Allen was currently fighting off. However, Allen couldn’t process why Kanda would want to kiss him, Allen Walker, chief annoyance in Kanda’s life.

Surprisingly, Nea provided no off hand comment or snark. Allen assumed Nea was probably just waiting to pull out every quip he had once he was alone. For right now though, there was only Allen and his confused thoughts.

Kanda placed the phone back on the table with an exasperated sigh and said, “They still have no fucking clue where he is, but a bunch of officers are combing the Aran Islands for the kids. We have a roadblocks on every exit in Limerick. There’s no way he made it out of the city. Link interrogated the imposter that switched with Chaoji in the gas station. Some religious nuts have decided that Chaoji’s a prophet carrying out “God’s mission”, whatever the fuck that means, and they’re doing everything they can to help him.”

“They probably won’t find the kids alive, will they?” Allen said faintly, remembering the state of his apartment.

Kanda frowned, then responded, “You’re only saying that because of the bible verse at your apartment, right? Did you get a good look at the verse? Maybe we can figure out his next move.”

“Yeah, it said Matthew 10:28, I think,” Allen said.

Kanda pulled his laptop closer and began typing. He looked up at Allen with the Kanda version of excitement, a small spark in his eyes and a half-smile.

“No, I think the kids may still be out there. This bible verse isn’t like the others,” he said.

Allen leaned close to Kanda to read the screen. Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.

“You’re right, that’s not anything to do with angels or eyes,” Allen said, almost chipper for the first time this evening.

“What’s weird about it,” Kanda looked at Allen, “It seems like a warning more than anything else. A warning meant for you.”

Allen fell silent as he pondered the verse, thoughts eventually tumbling back to this morning. Anita had mentioned a group of people who purged ghosts and people alike, and he couldn’t help but to wonder if Chaoji really was trying to warn him. Especially when coupled with the “HELP” written in blood on his apartment--Chaoji was scared of something, something worse than the ghost inside him. What didn’t make sense was that Chaoji had carved the same message for help when he was in the interrogation room. He should’ve been safe in there.

Unless someone on the force also knew Chaoji was possessed and was a part of the group Anita mentioned earlier.

“You look like you know something,” Kanda said.

“No, I just--” Allen stopped mid-sentence.

Chaoji was purposefully released so that they could purge the ghost, then execute him. Since Link was fixated on tailing Chaoji, it made him the prime suspect.

“Was it Link’s sole decision to release Chaoji?” Allen asked rather suddenly.

Kanda gave him a strange look, then said, “No, I think he consulted with some people higher up. I overheard him talking on the phone with Lavi about it, too. Why?”

“No reason,” Allen replied a little too quick.

“Bullshit,” Kanda said while glaring, “Tell me what’s going on. There’s a reason they released him, isn’t there? I knew that decision didn’t make any sense.”

He knew Kanda wasn’t going to let this go. Allen bit his lip, deciding that a partial truth might work. “I think they released Chaoji so that they could kill him.”

Kanda fell back against the couch. “Which is why you’re asking if it was Link’s decision. But why release him and attempt to kill him when we already have him in custody? It’s not like people escape prison often.”

“I don’t know,” Allen lied, continued, “But that’s why he left the message of ‘HELP’ on my apartment wall.”

“So he just randomly chose your apartment, you, to ask for help?” Kanda asked warily.

“If you’re going to accuse me of conspiring with the Entomber--”

“I’m not. But something happened in that basement, didn’t it? You two have some kind of connection. Chaoji trusts you,” Kanda said.

“I can probably use that trust to find the kids, if I can speak with Chaoji alone. We have to find him before they do,” Allen said, ignoring Kanda’s attempt to pull information about the basement again.

“ _We_ are following orders and staying put. This is all speculation. For all we know you’re still Chaoji’s target,” Kanda replied, grabbing Allen’s wrist.

“Fine, I’ll find him without you. Besides, what are you going to do, handcuff me?” Allen said sarcastically.

Kanda grinned at this, and Allen paled in complexion. He desperately attempted to free his wrist from Kanda’s grip. Allen had his back to the armrest of the leather couch, nearly knocking over the lamp on the side table as Kanda attempted to lock the metal cuff around Allen’s captured wrist. Allen cursed as the cuff clicked around his right wrist, then held his other arm out of Kanda’s reach. Kanda straddled Allen’s hips and his chest pressed against Allen’s as his fingertips brushed Allen’s wrist.

“Stop squirming, Walker. This is for,” Kanda hissed as he strained for Allen’s left wrist, “your own good, idiot!”

“You’ll never take me alive,” Allen countered.

“You know what?” Kanda said as he stopped reaching for Allen’s wrist. “I have a better idea.”

“Does it involve getting off of me and letting me go stop a murder? If not, I’m not interested, but thanks,” Allen said angrily.

Kanda sat up, still on Allen’s lap, and handcuffed his own left wrist. The chain links jangled between the two cuffs as Kanda smirked at Allen.

“You’re joking,” Allen yelled, jerking his wrist now attached to Kanda, “Oh my God, I hate you! Uncuff me!”

“Hate me all you want. This is the only way I know you won’t sneak off in the middle of the night,” Kanda said in a haughty tone, obviously pleased that he’d won.

Allen fumed silently, trying to find a way to escape this situation. Eventually, he calmed down and let out a heavy sigh in displeasure. “At least get off, will you?”

Kanda blinked, then looked down and realized the risque position they were in. A blush crept up his face like chameleon in a rose bush. He clumsily dismounted Allen and retreated to the other side of the couch, accidentally jerking Allen via the handcuffs.

“Watch it, idiot,” Allen said while glaring.

“You’re the idiot with no self control and no sense of danger,” Kanda muttered back, although unable to make eye contact.

They exchanged a few childish insults (“idiot” was thrown back and forth at least four times) before silence fell over the room, aside from the rain beating the roof. Allen yanked his wrist a few times while Kanda tried to type on his laptop, responding to Kanda’s glowering with a few pretend, “Oopsies.” However, annoying Kanda soon lost its appeal and boredom flowed into a restless sleep.

* * *

Allen awoke due to a vibration in his pocket. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he realized he’d fallen asleep on Kanda, with Allen’s head in his lap and Kanda’s hand tangled in his hair. Kanda was passed out at the moment, head slumped to the side and his long, raven hair, loose from it’s usual uptight ponytail, in a waterfall covering the side of his face. Kanda hadn’t even changed out of his uniform, although that could’ve been Allen’s fault for falling asleep on him.

Carefully taking out his phone with his free hand, Allen noticed he had a missed call from Fou, along with a text.

_“send officers to the alley near old clatmore st & galtlee ave to arrest me in 15 min”_

Allen looked up at Kanda to make sure he was asleep still, then texted back, “Fou what’s going on?”

Nea appeared out of the shadows with a yawn. “What’s got you upset at 3 A.M.? And don’t think we aren’t talking about your new boyfriend. After you fell asleep on him he ran his hand through your hair for like, an hour, before dozing off. You truly are a heartbreaker, Walker.”

Allen rolled his eyes, then silently held out the phone for Nea to read Fou’s text.

Nea looked perplexed. “Weird. That’s only a few blocks away, right? Wait, didn’t that new desk attendant at the garda station say she took a few days off? Oh, hold on, you have a new text.”

Allen turned the phone back towards him and read the new text from Fou.

_“tracked down entomber. cant sit by and do nothing anymore. anything else I tell u could get u in trouble, prior knowledge and the sort. love u, stay safe”_

Eyes wide, Allen nearly jumped off the couch but remembered the handcuffs at the last moment.

Nea read the text and responded, “She’s going to try to kill Chaoji, isn’t she? Normally I’m against charging straight into stupid situations, but she is definitely going to get herself killed. We’re close enough to that intersection to probably get there in time. Here, hold out the handcuffs without moving Kanda’s arm.”

Allen sat up carefully, detangling Kanda’s hand from his hair. Nea came close to the chain links between the handcuffs. The lamp on the coffee table flickered a few times, and then the chain broke, separating Kanda and Allen’s wrists. Allen looked at the broken handcuff on his wrist in wonder, then at Nea.

“It would take too long to explain how I do things like that, so you can just say thank you later. Grab your coat and hurry up,” Nea said.

Allen tucked his borrowed sweatpants into his boots and slipped on his damp coat and gloves. He glanced back at Kanda, who was most definitely going to kill him, before quietly exiting the apartment. A thunderclap disguised the creak of the door as he left, the evening’s storm beginning to take a turn for the worse.


	13. You Make It Very Hard to Know You

 Thunder boomed above as Allen shut the door to Kanda’s apartment. Hiding beneath an umbrella Allen had stolen from the apartment, Allen looked to his left, then his right. The abandoned street began to flood, water coagulating near the storm drains and tiny rivers forming on either side of the road. Lightning split the sky into cloudy puzzle pieces, brightening the entire street for a few moments as if the sun had woken up.

“Which way is Clatmore and Galtlee, again?” Allen asked, his sense of direction worse than his handwriting.

“Allen,” Nea appeared on Kanda’s doorstep, “We need to talk.”

Allen put his hands on his hips and said, “If you’re going to lecture me about how this is a stupid idea, then why did you bother freeing me from the handcuffs?”

“Because I needed to be able to speak with you, alone,” Nea replied in a serious tone.

Allen looked at Nea with apprehension, his shoulders tensing at Nea’s sober voice. “What is it? Moreover, can it wait until after I find Fou?”

“No, it can’t,” Nea said, pressing his lips together before adding, “I haven’t been entirely truthful with you.”

 Allen gave Nea a wary look before responding, “What’s this about?”

Nea looked anywhere but Allen’s eyes and dragged his fingers through his dark hair. “I told you before that I don’t remember anything from my past, but that was only partially true. Little memories come back, day by day, and--”

“I figured you remembered some things, Nea, but weren’t ready to tell me. You don’t need to have such a guilty expression. Let’s go find Fou,” Allen said in a featherweight tone.

“No, Allen, what I’m saying is that I,” Nea shook his head, then continued, “Nevermind. What you need to know is there’s a group of people called The Black Order. They purge ghosts and their human hosts, and their members are spread throughout every profession. Including the garda. I think they know that Chaoji is possessed, which is why they released him--in order to execute him. 

Allen fidgeted a little and said, “I guess I haven’t been truthful, myself. Back at the tobacco shop, Anita actually told me about them, although she didn’t give the society a name. I figured that was the reason they released Chaoji, too. Which is why we need to be on our way--”

Nea grabbed Allen by the shoulders and locked eyes. “You aren’t listening, Allen. There are people on their way to purge Chaoji’s ghost, then kill him. People you work with, people who walk the same halls of the station that you do. I’ve been careless, walking around with you in full form. I think that text from Fou is bait, and I think they plan to kill you.”

Allen hadn’t realized that if they knew Chaoji was possessed, then they probably were keeping an eye on him as well. If Link really was involved, then he definitely could’ve picked up on Nea. However, something didn’t make sense to him.

“Tyki said that others could only see you if they got close to me, so I doubt anyone has picked up on your existence. What if there’s a chance the text was real? I can’t just abandon Fou,” Allen responded. 

“Why do you think that idiot upstairs is suddenly being nice to you, making sure you stay put in a secure location, constantly keeping updated with Link? He’s most likely working with them. I love you Allen, but you’re incredibly naive to think he’s actually into you. Not even to mention that Kanda said Link consulted with Lavi, who may know you enough to see my aura around you, if he has an aptitude to see ghosts,” Nea said.

Nea’s words were rubbing alcohol to a fresh wound. Allen didn’t respond, looking away and shaking Nea’s hands from his shoulders. He felt incredibly gullible and stupid, wondering how he thought Kanda actually cared for him.

“That was harsh, I apologize,” Nea said, recognizing the hurt in Allen’s eyes, “I just don’t know that I can protect you if you go find Fou. You need to run, Allen, tonight. A plane ticket, a taxi, something--”

“I thought I had found a place I could finally call home,” Allen spoke quietly and stared at his shoes, “but that was just my naivety, wasn’t it? Foster family to foster family, job to job, country to country--I’m never going to stop running, am I?”

Nea had a great sympathy in his eyes. “Oh, Allen, I know it hurts now, but--”

Allen pondered over where he could go next. A cheap flat outside of London, maybe. Thoughts of the past few weeks suddenly flooded his mind: snorting laughter with Tyki, Lenalee’s hard-edged sunshine, lunches with Fou. Kanda, all the bickering and fighting and then, Kanda kissing him.

“I’m tired of running, Nea,” Allen said, a passion returning to his eyes, “and I want to fight for the life I’ve built here. I’m going to help Fou, no matter the risk.”

“Allen, this is a suicide mission,” Nea pleaded.

Allen’s gaze didn’t waver, and he began walking in the direction he assumed was correct. Nea let out a great sigh from Kanda’s doorstep and his shoulders slumped.

“It’s the other way. And you’ll need to walk much faster if we’re going to intercept them in time,” Nea said.

Allen turned towards Nea and smiled, athough it was not a broad grin of happiness. The smile was more wistful, more like the smile when greeting others at a funeral. 

“Thank you,” Allen said.

Nea shook his head. “I figured you’d already made your mind up before I even freed you from the handcuffs. It was worth a shot, though. I might as well join you for the ride. Let’s go.”

* * *

 

Completely out of breath from running, Allen found the flooded intersection. The dark cross streets was similar to Kanda’s abandoned street, although a couple of the street lamps were out. The ones left flickered in an clementine glow amidst the rain, sturdy metal poles now fidgeting in the wind. It seemed even the moon was hiding from this evening on Earth, as though she couldn’t bare to look.

“That alley, over there,” Nea pointed across the street, “I sense his ghost. We may be too late.”

“Or early,” Allen said in mock hopefulness.

Due to the decrepit roofs above, the exposed, chipped brick of the alley had water flowing down it like a post-industrial waterfall. Allen plastered himself to the building beside the alley, then looked over at Nea and nodded. With noise of the storm drowning out any noise coming from the alley, Allen spied into the space with just the corner of his face. Wet, colorless hair stuck to his forehead since he’d ditched the umbrella in exchange for stealth. 

Allen’s first glance into the dark mouth of the alley didn’t turn up much, the dark shape of a dumpster near the opening, but the rest veiled in the night’s gloom. Squinting, Allen’s vision adjusted and he could see two figures, one taller further in the alley, and a smaller figure just past the dumpster. The smaller figure was cloaked in a black raincoat, hood over the hair, and the person was trembling, stirring up the pools of water near their feet. Near the smaller figure, the blade of a large kitchen knife caught the light of a streetlamp, a glint of light flashing in the dark alley. 

A great clap of thunder seemed to shake even the ground, followed by a starburst of lightning. And in the few moments of light, the smaller figure charged the person further back in the alley. Their hood fell backward, boots spattering in the puddles. Allen could see flowing red hair from the release of the hood. The sky went dark again, a black curtain thrown over the pair in the alley.

“Fou!” Allen cried out, swallowed in a crescendo of thunder.

Allen entered the flooded passage, and the sky lit up again, lightning like tree roots spreading across the sky. He caught a glimpse of Chaoji, dark, indigo flames surrounding him like a great bonfire, wisps of fire licking at the sky. Fou had been tossed into the left wall of the alley like litter, slumped against the waterlogged brick. She was still conscious, and feebly pointed at the knife strewn near Allen’s feet. He picked up the knife, staring at his own terrified expression reflected in the blade.

“Chaoji, I know you’re in there somewhere! I don’t want to fight!” Allen yelled over the wind.

Chaoji eyed him with little interest, the same dead look that he’d had in the basement.

“I can distract him while you grab Fou, Allen. Go,” Nea said, taking the knife and stepping in front of Allen.

Allen scurried over to Fou, brushing burnt-orange soaked hair past her cheekbones. She winced. Her half-lidded eyes were beginning to tear up, and she began to struggle as Allen attempted to pick her up.

“He’s goin’ ta get away, Allen! He’s just goin’ ta keep killing!” She screamed.

A loud clang sound directed Allen’s attention back towards Chaoji. Nea looked at his left hand a little dumbfounded, the knife torn from his hand and now in Chaoji’s right hand. Chaoji’s shoes threw up great walls of water as he charged Nea with the knife. Nea, now on defense, fluidly dodged the deft strokes. Chaoji lunged the knife towards Nea’s abdomen. Nea disappeared from sight altogether the second before impact, reappearing to Chaoji’s left. He struck a blow in Chaoji’s chest, putting so much force behind it that Chaoji staggered back a few paces. 

Although it seemed that Nea had the upper hand, his jacket was torn with jagged holes across the sleeves and waist. Allen felt a great stinging and tingling in his right arm, pulled up the sleeve, and found fresh cuts that matched the holes in Nea’s jacket. Allen squinted at Nea’s apparatition and noticed it to be much weaker, almost transparent in appearance.

“Nea!” Allen called out.

“A little busy,” Nea panted as Chaoji lunged towards him, “Get out of here, hurry!" 

Allen looked at Fou, attempting to bite him to free herself from his grip. “Fou, I need you to run. I promise you I won’t let him get away this time. I have a plan." 

Fou stopped mid-bite on Allen’s arm, then noticed the cuts. She looked over at Chaoji, who to the average passerby would look as though he were fighting with air.

Fou bit her lip, then nodded. “I trust you. I’ll call the station ‘ile I’m runnin’. Ye two can ‘old on till then?”

Allen nodded, then blinked. “Two?”

“Yer friend, there, the shadowy guy. Looks like he’s ‘aving a time of it. ‘Course that could be the concussion speakin’,” Fou said with a wink. 

Allen was stunned, but didn’t respond. He helped her to her feet. Just as Fou left the alley, she turned back and yelled, “I better not ‘ave to attend yer funeral, ya’ hear me?!”

Turning back to the ongoing fight, Allen called out, “Nea, I have an idea! I’m sorry in advance!”

“Sorry? What are you--” Nea’s eyes went wide as he looked back at Allen.

The sage was still in Allen’s pocket, dry from whatever fabric the satchel was made of. He flipped the key-crossed zippo open with a tiny clink, lighting the sage and hiding in beneath his hand from the rain. The bundle of leaves soon let out great plumes of smoke, and Allen realized that the rain had no affect on the flames.

“Allen, you idiot! Look be--” Nea yelled, voice and figure fading out into the smoke.

Silence fell over the two left in the alley, and rain and smoke and fog clouded Allen’s vision. A loud splash broke the silence, and Allen noticed the knife in a puddle near Chaoji’s feet. The sage began to burn out, smoke clearing from the passage. Chaoij approached Allen, and Allen took a step back out of wariness.

“Thank you, Allen Walker,” Chaoji took a step forward and Allen could hear the tears in his voice, “for letting me die human, as myself. For stopping me.”

A great boom of thunder, God’s rage incarnate. 

“Chaoji, I’m not going to kill you. I--” 

The alley lit up once more in a black and white snapshot, but sound was Allen’s more prevalent sense. A single gunshot whizzed past Allen’s ear, nearly bursting his eardrum. The bullet struck between Chaoji’s eyebrows, the lightning painting the scene in Allen’s eyes. Blood spattered across Allen’s face, and a syrupy stream of maroon trailed from the bullet wound. Tears and rain and smeared grime all cluttered Chaoji’s complexion, but he had a sincere, broken smile as his eyes went dim, lifeless, then dead. They sky grew dark once more. Chaoji fell like a great oak in a forest, landing in the pools of water with a loud splash. 

Allen stood in shock over his body, a spray of blood on his jacket and face. Chaoji’s uninhabited eyes stared up at the swirling storm clouds above. He watched the pools beneath Chaoji turn dark with blood. As shock was finally replaced with racing thoughts, Allen crouched next to Chaoji’s lifeless body with tears already welling up.

“I’m so sorry,” Allen whispered, touching his face.

A voice said from behind Allen, a dripping, rich voice like a sugar-encased scorpion, “Thank you for disarming him with the sage. Trapping that spirit in a dead body makes my work much easier, at least until the sage wears off.”

Allen turned to face the killer while still crouched, meeting the barrel of a gun at eye level and a hooded figure looming over him. A tuft of blonde hair stuck out from the hood.

“I’m just doing my job,” the voice said almost with regret, “and I promise you’ll be remembered for forfeiting your life to take down the Entomber. You’ve done well, fighting against that disgusting spirit, Nea Campbell. However, I can’t let it live further. Do you have any words you’d like me to pass on?”

His brain screamed for him to run, to attempt to disarm the other, _something_ ; but Allen only stared at the cobbled ground. Rain continued to pour, soothing Allen’s tear-stained face and returning a clarity to his mind. He wasn’t crying anymore, for he didn’t grieve his decision to help Fou. He didn’t regret choosing to stay and try to build a life here. And he didn’t regret Nea. 

“You’d think I’d have something prepared, some final wish,” Allen faltered, unable to figure out what he wanted to say.

No, it wasn’t that Allen couldn’t figure out what he wanted to say--it’s that he couldn’t accept what he wanted to say.

 “Tell Kanda--”

_“Tell me yourself, you complete fucking idiot!”_

The hooded figure began to convulse, collapsing into the street after a few moments, the ornate gun clattering on the stone ground. Allen noticed wires from a taser stuck to the person’s back, following the wires to their origin. And in the next moment Kanda crouched next to him, holding him, shouting insults and cursing him out within an embrace. Allen realized he was shaking like a pulled taut wire, and clung to Kanda. Nearly crushing him within his arms, Kanda held him so close that Allen could feel Kanda’s racing heartbeat even beneath his coat.

“Fou called me,” Kanda said breathless from yelling, still clutching Allen, “told me what happened. What goes on in your goddamn mind, Allen? Trying to arrest the Entomber by yourself, not to mention whoever the fuck this is,” Kanda eyed the limp body next to them, “literally about to put a bullet between your eyes. What the fuck, honestly, Allen?" 

“I had to help Fou. I thought,” Allen choked out, his face buried beneath Kanda’s chin. 

“Of course you couldn’t leave Fou to die, I wouldn’t have either. But, why couldn’t you at least trust me enough to help,” Kanda slowly calmed down, quietly adding, “You don’t have to do this all on your own, you know?”

Allen didn’t respond, trying to stifle a sniffle that would cascade into another crying fit.

“We need to go,” Kanda said when Allen didn’t answer, pulling away, “I called the station and put in an anonymous tip that the Entomber was seen here. This storm should have washed away evidence that Fou and you were here--”

Kanda noticed Allen wince when he pulled away, and lifted up Allen’s sleeves to find the shallow cuts and bruises. He looked agitated, then it mellowed into a concerned look. “Let’s just hope they don’t test any blood they find here. We don’t have time to attempt a cover.”

With Kanda’s coat draped over him, Allen took one last look at Chaoji’s lifeless body before leaving the alley.

* * *

 

Allen sat on Kanda’s kitchen counter shirtless, still shivering and in shock from the evening. A stray first aid kit sat beside him, as Kanda patched him back together with gauze and tape. None of the wounds were too deep or severe, but there were quite a few bites from the knife on his right arm and abdomen. They hadn’t spoken, even in the safety of the apartment, although Kanda kept stealing worried glances.

“I’m sorry,” Allen said quietly, finally breaking the silence.

Kanda quietly wiped Chaoji’s blood from Allen’s face with a wet towel.

“You are officially banned from using the word ‘sorry’,” Kanda replied, making eye contact for a moment before returning to wrap Allen’s abdomen.

“There, good as new,” Kanda said, tone faltering when he noticed Allen’s melancholy.

,”Thank you,” Allen said absently.

An uncomfortable silence returned. He could tell that Kanda desperately wanted even a single answer to the questions surrounding Allen. However, that meant Allen would have to trust him. Nea’s warning still clung to Allen’s thoughts, that Kanda was working with the Black Order, that Kanda truly didn’t care for him. His thoughts kept swirling like a whirlpool in rough seas, threatening to swallow him whole.

“You need to change out of those wet clothes. You’re on the verge of hypothermia,” Kanda said.

Allen nodded, his mind elsewhere, and followed Kanda to the tall wardrobe near the bed. Allen filtered through the clothes for a moment, retrieving an oversized white sweater and boxers. Excusing himself to the bathroom to change, Allen stripped his wet clothes off and hung them on the shower rod. He tied up his wet hair into a high bun with a spare hair tie on the counter. The white, wool sweater fell mid-thigh on him, almost like a short dress, and the sleeves went to Allen’s fingertips. He welcomed the warmth and pressed the fabric to his face. The sweater smelled of Kanda, a slight tinge of cigarettes covered by soap and fresh citrus.

He exited the bathroom, finding Kanda in the kitchen. Kanda was absorbed in a laptop he had open on the granite countertop, a video on the screen from a news website.

“What are the news stations saying about what happened?” Allen asked.

Kanda took his attention from the screen and looked over at Allen. He said nothing for a moment, just staring at Allen in the oversized sweater with a dumbfounded expression. A blush crept up his cheeks, and Kanda cleared his throat a few times.

“What?” Allen said.

“Uh, nothing. You just look,” Kanda stopped and looked away, “nevermind. The press is--”

“No, what were you going to say? I look what?” Allen playfully responded, satisfied when Kanda’s complexion turned a dusky peach.

“Nothing, bartender. I need a cigarette,” Kanda said nervously, closing the laptop and fumbling for his pack. 

“Mind if I join you, then?” Allen said.

* * *

 

Kanda’s porch was a botanical garden, with different flowers and herbs strewn on the floor, the metal railing, and the various tables. An overflowing ashtray sat on a glass table in the center of the porch, with two black, glossy metal chairs surrounding it. Since Allen’s pack of cigarettes was soaked, he borrowed one from Kanda. They both leaned against the railing, watching lightning in the distance through the sprinkling rain.

After a few quiet drags of his cigarette, Kanda asked, “Why was that person trying to kill you tonight?”

Allen sucked on his cigarette to buy time, pondering his options. He could lie, but it would have to be convincing. He could also tell the truth, but he doubted Kanda would believe him.

“You’re trying to come up with some lie to placate me, aren’t you?” Kanda said.

“Yeah,” Allen responded after a moment, “I am.”

 Kanda sighed at this, then stared at his cigarette, watching it slowly burn out, embers turning to grey flakes of ash.

“I had a guarda partner before Tyki. His name was Alma. He,” Kanda faltered, then looked over at Allen, “He died because of me. Because I didn’t trust him to have my back, and he ended up with a bullet to the chest protecting me. I regret that day every single night. When I woke up to Fou’s phone call, and you weren’t there, I felt that same panic. I didn’t know what to do at the thought of you disappearing like that, and I just,” Kanda stopped abruptly, realizing he was rambling. 

Clasping Kanda’s hand, Allen felt him slightly shaking. The raw emotion Kanda was showing, if only of a slight tremble in his hands, troubled Allen. He wondered if Kanda had talked to anyone about this person’s death.

Allen made eye contact, responded, “I’m so sorry for your loss--I can’t begin to imagine that kind of pain. I know what I did was stupid, I just got so scared at the thought of losing Fou that I acted blindly. Honestly, I didn’t think I could trust you. I still don’t know if I can.”

“Why, Allen,” Kanda asked faintly, “Why can’t you trust me, or anyone?” 

Allen stared down at their intertwined fingers. “I don’t know.”

They fell silent, staying on the porch until Allen’s shivering prompted Kanda to lead them inside.

* * *

 

Freeing his hair from it’s uptight prison, Kanda waltzed into the kitchen and searched the cabinets; his hand fell around the neck of a green glass bottle of Jameson. Retrieving a plain shot glass, Kanda sloshed the amber liquid inside, downing it before looking over at Allen. He held out the bottle as a suggestion.

Allen nodded, although he only drank on rare occasion, in celebration rather than remorse. Kanda handed him the full shot glass, and Allen downed it.

“Absolute paint varnish,” Allen muttered through pursed lips, tucking his head into his shoulder and clearing his throat.

“Not much of a drinker, I see. Any Irishman in earshot of you calling Jameson ‘paint varnish’ would have you shot,” Kanda said curiously.

“You don’t consider yourself Irish? It seems you’ve been here a while,” Allen responded, grimacing at Kanda throwing down another shot like fresh water.

Kanda looked at the empty glass, responded, “Spent my childhood in Tokyo. My family disowned me a while back, and I somehow ended up here almost ten years ago. Still doesn’t feel like home, though.”

“I’ve been disowned seven times,” Allen shook his head after downing another shot, “maybe more. ‘Jumped a lot of foster families. Do you mind if I ask why--”

Kanda looked a little taken aback at the fact that Allen was sharing something, then pondered Allen’s question. “Why they disowned me? A rebellious streak that lasted my teens got me in a lot of trouble with the police. My family was influential in their company and wealth, and I couldn’t be their perfect child. What about you?”

Allen felt a wave of lightheadedness, followed by warmth from the alcohol on an empty stomach. Messing with his tied up hair, he perched in a barstool across from Kanda standing in the kitchen.

“I was lousy at school, and before bullying became a nationwide issue, I got pegged as a problem child for always being in fights. Or I ate more than the government checks were worth,” Allen quipped, balancing his heavy head on two palms.

“I’d bet on the latter. I’ve seen what you consider a ‘light lunch’ when you eat with Fou,” Kanda responded while making a sour face.

“It’s not a crime to eat in this country, isn’t it? If it is, then arrest me, officer,” Allen said, batting his eyelashes and holding out his wrists.

Kanda touched the cuff still around Allen’s wrist, and looked up at Allen. “I knew there was something I forgot to ask you. How in the hell did you break my handcuffs without waking me up?”

“Oh, super easy. I file my teeth,” Allen made the face like a cat baring its fangs, “so they’re super sharp. Just bit right through--”

“Allen, I want an answer for once. A real one, just one,” Kanda held up an index finger.

Contemplating his options, Allen stalled for time. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“Bartender. Stop dodging the question.”

“I’m not, it’s just fun to see how irritated you get. Tell you what, if you can drink more than me, then I’ll tell you. Fair?” Allen said with a wry smile.

Kanda poured another shot in response, tipping his head back and the shot glass with it. “You’re two behind, now.”

The sky slowly turned from a violet to a dark magenta. Allen began to feel as though he was stuck in an aquarium tank, movements sluggish and miscalculated, brain dizzy and giddy. Allen laughed to the point where he nearly fell off the barstool, covering his mouth with a curled hand and eyes watering. A laughter so deep and uncontrollable that he felt it in his chest--a sense of homecoming but a location somewhere within instead of brick and mortar.

Bumping into the counter, Kanda rounded the bar corner, putting his hands on Allen’s shoulders and leaning down to whisper in his ear. “You need sleep before you get alcohol poisoning, bartender.”

"It’s Allen, jackass,” Allen slurred his words a little, beer-blush worsened by Kanda’s closeness, “And admit defeat? I think not. But if you’re tapping out, then I think I win.”

“Yeah, I’m tapping out,” Kanda said with a soft snigger, “if only for your safety. Come on.”

“Whatever excuse makes you feel better,” Allen said, sticking out a tongue.

Kanda led Allen with an arm around his shoulder, while Allen steadied Kanda’s wavering steps. Allen curled up on Kanda’s bed, the black down comforter immediately returning feeling to his toes. Kanda took off his boots and laid beside him, staring up at the ceiling.

“You look like you have something to say,” Allen said, turning on his side to face Kanda.

Kanda let out a sigh, his words falling out like a tangled wayward mess. “I don’t understand you. You drive me up the goddamn wall. I can’t stand you sometimes. Most of the time. At the same time, I don’t want you to leave me alone. It’s strange, no, damn frustrating is what it is.” 

Allen let out a little laugh at this, a moment of brightness amidst the miserable evening. He placed his head on Kanda’s shoulder, and reached for Kanda’s hand.

Squeezing Kanda’s hand, Allen said, “I can’t stand you either, if it helps.”

Kanda cracked a smile at this, and pressed his lips to Allen’s forehead. Allen lifted his head and looked up at him, noticing his intense gaze with so much emotion behind it that it frightened Allen. Only Nea had looked at him like that, with so much love welling up even behind a nonchalant facade. Allen realized that Kanda truly cared for him, even if he showed it through his own personal kaleidoscope of perspective. Even more terrifying was Allen’s own feelings, and he realized he was falling for Kanda, even if his emotions were being tossed back and forth like clothes in a washing machine.

Allen timidly kissed him, afraid of his own overwhelming feelings but consumed by desire. Kanda kissed back delicately, aware of Allen’s confliction, aware of Allen’s fear of closeness. Allen began kissing him with more intensity, fighting against his own fear, gripping the nape of Kanda’s neck through his hair. He felt the texture of Kanda’s hair, strong strands but soft to the touch, almost like fresh pine straw. Kanda loosened Allen’s bun as he combed his hands through Allen’s damp, white hair.

There tongues were stinging with electricity and eyes sparking like the cut cables severed from the razor leaves. The heat of the storm brushed on the pavement of their cheeks, his fingers as a sudden downpour, chilling and killing with tiny pins dancing on the curve of his spine. Panting and vying for air only fueled the whirlwind in his lungs; the strange phenomenon when a hot front meets a cold one.

They were creating a tornado between their lips. A short lived, destructive storm that left behind only ravaged fields and desolate scraps of houses and a hideous cry from the lovers stolen by the wind. But boy, wasn’t it breathtaking, terrifying, even?

Straddling his lithe hips through the blanket, Kanda ended up on top of him. Allen pulled away for air, and Kanda took this opportunity to suck at the intersection of Allen’s jaw and neck, lightly biting the sensitive skin. Allen gasped, falling back into the pillow as Kanda left loving marks down his neck. Returning to Allen’s lips, they began kissing passionately as Kanda grinded against him. Allen matched his motions, moving his hips in tune with Kanda’s thighs. Kanda moaned against Allen’s lips mid-kiss, and Allen smirked. Taking this as a challenge, Kanda pressed himself even harder against Allen, his tongue an intruder in Allen’s mouth. Allen’s eyes squeezed shut as Kanda played with his tongue; he opened his mouth and their tongues and lips meshed together. After a few moments, Kanda pulled away breathlessly.

“This is moving,” Kanda took a breath, “really fast. It’s not like I want to stop, really, that’s the last thing on my mind, but--”

Allen softly pecked him on the cheek. “You’re right. Let’s get some sleep.”

“So you admit I’m right for once?” Kanda smiled slightly as Allen rolled his eyes in response.

Kanda climbed underneath the covers, and Allen wrapped himself around him. As their legs wove together like vines, Allen curved into Kanda’s chest. Kanda loosely wrapped an arm around him and began to doze off almost immediately. Allen noticed a lack of the usual overflow of thoughts that struck when he attempted to sleep. He also noticed a glaring lack of Nea all evening, even when the sage should’ve worn off hours ago. Allen had definitely made him upset in one way or another--Allen couldn’t help but wonder if Kanda could be the source of Nea’s disappearance.

* * *

 

The sound of soft rain, then the muffled sound of a car passing by. Background noise following, the sound of someone’s phone ringing in the kitchen. Grey overcast light filtering through windows above, like a thick blanket of ash outside. A headache on the horizon. Flashing images of Chaoji’s death and a gun pointed at him. Allen groaned when he tried to move, feeling as though he had the flu. Kanda served as a great source of warmth, and Allen rested his head in the crook of Kanda’s neck. Allen began to fall back into a light sleep.

“‘Should probably get that phone,” Kanda mumbled, although he pulled Allen closer.

“Five more minutes, Nea. They’ll call again if they are serious,” Allen semi-consciously responded.

“Uh, who’s Nea?”


End file.
